Well done Mr Smith, the new internet is absolutely superb and I was able to watch a rerun of Britain's Got No Talent on my laptop all the way through dinner. Mr Smith looked vexed so I turned it off - three Xs for me.
The new diet is working a treat and I am now a mere sylph, a shadow of my former self. Can I have a Cadbury's cream egg and a glass of wine now?
Rain - oh lovely delicious yummy rain. I love you. By the way, my new mac isn't very waterproof as the dog and I discovered during walkies but I pretended not to notice despite being soaked to the skin. I had to have a nice warm bath and put on my big fluffy bathrobe when I got home. So did the dog.
I got trapped by my horrible mother on the telephone who wants to come to lunch on Monday. She detected my slight reticence though I was careful not to sigh or groan or wail loudly whilst curling into a foetal position on the floor, hugging myself until Mr Smith assured me it would be fine. But it won't - it never is. He promises to be here. "I'll bring a picnic" she says. And what, eat it at the end of the garden whilst we entertain my father? Oh please. Well, that's my bank holiday ruined. Maybe her broomstick will break down or something. Now who's the nasty one? Must be hereditary.
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