My apologies, again, for my profound radio silence, but give me a moment to explain.
The winter chill this year is so intense that I've feared that my digits would, at best, get frost bite, turn that revolting black-blue-purple-green hue that certainly does not scream "femininity" and fall off. As a result, my ability to type has been seriously hindered. But, thankfully, I've trained my winter-inspired nipple stand to type on behalf of the fingers - so excuse any titpos.
Also I've been sick in manner of grumpy congested man-flu for the longest time. The Daughter, however, has played nurse and, despite her sometimes exceptionally alternative methods of healing including a porridge made of flour, eggs, balsamic vinegar (because it has a brown colour like chocolate), orange Tropika and syrup, her love has seen me right:
The Daughter: Okay, Mom. You need to eat your breakfast if you want to get better.
The Pant: Ah my angel, Mom is so not hungry.
TD: I'm counting to three. Open your mouth. One... Two...-
TP: I'm not eating it.
TD: But Mom! You always make me eat my food. And you shout when I don't. (With a part-earnest, part-pissed-off look) Do. You. Want. Me. To. Put. You. In. The. Naughty. Corner?
TP: My babes, I am not in the mood for porridge. (Porridge, at the best of times, in my book reminds me lumpy sexual expulsion of the male variety - not to mention porridge of syrup, raw eggs and balsamic vinegar.). But maybe I will feel better if I have some toast.
TD: You know how I feel about wasting?
Further, and probably the reason most responsible for my lack of blog action, I'm in the throes of giving up smoking. The Brother and The Sil went to Allen Carr's Stop Smoking Seminar and seem to have kicked the filthy habit with such ease that, while spending time with them in poes-cold Jo'burg, I became both self-conscious of my habit and jealous of their freedom from it. So I tootled on down to Exclusive's and bought his book.
Now let me put this in perspective. I am a reader. I love nothing more than snuggling into a warm bed (made positively toasty by my buy of the season - The Electric Blanket - Clicks, R179 for the win) with some filthy Kathy Lette literature. I am a book-a-day-kind-of-girl. Seriously, I've read 8 books in the last 2 weeks.
That is, until Allen Carr made his way into my bedroom. Blimey. Crikey effing Moses is the man as boring as boiled chicken. I am yet to make it through two pages without falling into a deep sleep peppered with very realistic (and filthy)and highly desirable couplings with Jake Gyllenhall.
The book is so bad, in fact, that yesterday while having my hair chopped off by Sexy Sexy Hairdresser (mmmmmm hmmmmmm) - in manner of very innocent 12-year-old girl, bar of course the wrinkles for which the lady at Dis-Chem has suggested I move to a new skin care range which serves to combat "early signs of ageing" - I nodded off and produced a string of drool so long that it bounced off the synthetic cover that ensconced my body and landed on the floor. Brilliant. Nothing quite says, 'Pick me pick me,' quite like eye-sleep-goop and drool.
I'm so embarrassed I think I may be choosing the following salon in future:
Nothing quite like having one's hair cut in the light of the Lord.