Get on it!
Get on it!
Kim cleans bird poo off Mrs Woog’s window and that’s really the pinnacle of the whole thing. Ho ho ho.
For those of you not comfortable/sorted/happy to use iTunes or an android thingy, here are links to the first five episodes via our podcast service and iTunes:
Episode 1 – period pants and vegan butchers
Episode 2 – would you get your kit off in a forest?
Episode 3 – the one where we get our rant on
Episode 4 – Mrs Woog is poorly, Mrs Berry is forgetful and riding off the back of a week of unprecendent inexplicable rage. There’s tea, solving the world’s woes, the realisation we can blame everything on oestrogen and a fair wodge of opinion. Oh and Kim’s pathological hatred of bike sharing.
Episode 5 – We’re fast and furious this episode with Kim getting Gilligan’s Island and Rugby League confused while Mrs Woog embraces the downward dog to avoid her husband.
There’s a new Woog & Berry poddy up in which we discuss, at length, the parlous state of my sex life in comparison to my ah, needs.
So things have just been travelling along as they do. There are family realignment papers to be signed so that is a development. Not unexpected but confronting all the same. I keep thinking to myself, just like that.
But something that has crept up on me is a pining for physical contact. Oh sure, a bit of hot sex would be grand
fuck I need to get laid but it’s more the physicality of a relationship. The enveloping hugs, the hand on the knee, yes the dry hump in the kitchen as you’re trying to get dinner ready, their smell.
I may start crash-tackling friends’ husbands just to sniff them and get some male pheromones on me. You’re all warned.
The online dating fiasco is ongoing. I am so half-hearted about it and largely only engage with it for ridicule purposes so I’m not sure why I’m surprised and a little dejected that not one man has contacted me. OK, three have but the less said about those the better. I think I am pushing shit up a hill being fat, forty with four kids and a dyke haircut. I mean, who am I kidding.
Here, let’s listen to Elle King and some banjo.