Prawn In My Side

Well, I've been out twice this weekend. Both times daytime, so no soirees of pickled octopus or owt like that. And, to be frank, the exertion has left me just wanting to lie down and eat cakes in the 7 or so hours left before it will become officially respectable timewise to do more lying down. The cakes may not be a terribly good idea, as they will probably lead to more dreams of misbehaving hamsters and wild and frantic attempts not to be late for work.

Yesterday's experience of exposure to the elements was urban and shiny, hanging out in bijou shoe shops and glorified treasure troves. And man it was blustery gustery, havoc-playing and affirming the need to retouch my roots. We did some art too - although that was a late dash through the gallery - but a dash was enough to see the paltry 6 pieces that comprised the exhibition.

Today was haircut for the 11 year old and running into an acquaintance, plus buying some instant lunch in the form of prawn salads and sandwiches. I know, lazy, lazy. All part of my new rule about only cooking once a day at weekends. The acquaintance tried to gloat about the wonderful pudding her son had made, so I threw back a glowing review of an equally successful cake my 2 had whipped up. I do not like parental one-up-womanship, so I think we left it at 1:1.

Someone asked yesterday why other people blog. The nearest answer I could agree with was its what you do when your facebook statuses start getting over-wieldy. Mine is just letting out the stuff that goes through my brain at random points*. So far it is acting as an appalling record of how little I really do, seeing as most of my posts are about a)avoiding other activities and b)reporting how much activity I have managed to avoid.

This is not good, or life-affirming, or productive. A random point may well be the duration of Take Me Out, aka an over-egged version of Blind Date. Cilla's shoulderpads have been updated into Paddy McGuinness' sharply-angled lapels which emphasise the spock-like nature of his ears. And each week, as all but 5 lights get turned off, we nearly get rid of the lovely, short, but very desperate, welsh girl. But not quite.