Swine Flu On A Sunday.

I have spent the most part of my day languidly turning the final pages of my Kathy Lette novel, contemplating how to construct a narrative detailing the events of the last 24 hours. I can't do it. It's too effing hot and I'm sweating like a commercial sex-worker in church.

So I'm just going to tell you, okay?

1). I got (accidentally) boobie groped by a woman last night. Thanks for that. It's the most action these puppies have seen in, well, months.

2). It got too late to finish the game of Cranium. We would have won, I'm sure, if we hadn't got such crap cards. We would have. But while I'm on the subject of games, I need to officially mention that The Pant is Down With Cranium and Up With 30 Seconds. Cranium is crap. My days with play dough are done. Well, almost.

3). I realised that the words to that very happy song that I often bop my head to are, "Well, fuck you and fuck her too". I like that people can sound happy when they're filled with hatred and anger. I've downloaded it. It's now my ringtone. Should hopefully see me through the week of (effing) work.

On the topic, I must also share that My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh and I truly burn up a dance floor when we're presented with one. Man alive do we choreograph a truly spectacular bum-shaking session. It's almost sexy, but without the sex. I suppose it's just 'y' then.

4). I breakfasted with The Father, The Daughter and A Waste of Human Skin this morning. Okay, maybe A Waste of Human Skin is a bit harsh. A better description of the man would be He Who Has Been Beaten To Death With The Ugly Stick And Then Revived. With A Personality To Match.

The Father is a village-dweller, you see. He breakfasts at the same place every day. With the same people. He likes it. And one of the people who is often seated around the same table as The Father is This Man.
I've met him plenty times before. And each time I accompany The Father to his breakfast jol, Dread (that we will run into This Man) accompanies me.

Going out for breakfast with The Father is like going out to breakfast alone except a mate pops by every now and again for a chat. You see he always needs to go to the can, then returns, then goes to draw money, then returns, then goes to buy the paper, then returns, then goes to buy twaks, then returns, then needs to take a call outside, then returns. You getting my drift? I must just tell you that I am a Class-A Bona Fide Daddy's Girl. I adore him. But the truth is the truth.

So while I was out to breakfast "with" The Father, I spent 90% of my time, alone, with This Man. Despite his private school education and his forty-plus years on this earth, he has still not learnt the words "Please" and "Thank you". Nor has he discovered the social etiquette of the 10%+ tip for service. And he says things like, "I'm off to take my sports car for a spin". (Can you see me wiggling my pinkie?)

How did I deal with my breakfast date, I hear you ask. I engrossed myself in The Daughter's colouring in book.  And I hardly went out the lines.  And I only coloured in two neighbouring blocks the same.  I didn't mean to.  While sipping on my milkshake. So, perhaps, my days of playdough are not over.

5). A fat, sweaty pig (yes, an actual traffic cop) tried to pick me up at Spar. He threw on the "Hey, baby" and the "Don't ya want some of this?" and the "Don't wear a short skirt and blame me". Sick effing pork rasher.

Hey, mister! I'll wear whatever the eff I like. And you, with your coffee-and-do-nut tyre around your waist, you ain't never gonna get anywhere near some ass like mine, okay?

You know you always hear people saying, "I wouldn't touch him with a ten foot barge pole"?

 Well this swine I would. Right in the mug.  Super effing hard.