Happiness is …

Separate quilts.

Separate quilts: 

Allow you to experience the luxury of having a whole quilt all to yourself every night … without the expense of getting divorced.

Encourage creativity in bedroom – you’ll have to find new things to fight over (like who’s had ginger nuts in bed).

Reduce the risk of ending up in an unpleasant ‘Dutch oven’ situation.

Now I can kick the covers onto the floor, whilst my Lord-and-Master Remain’s securely wrapped up like a mummified sausage roll.

Entry under my quilt is by invitation only. 

Crumbs …

The problem with these ‘secret support’ t-shirts is that they act like a crumb-catcher bib. Whip your top off at the end of the day and it’s like you’ve sneezed over everything with a mouthful of biscuit. One time I thought I’d developed a new mole overnight; I was terrified … until I realised it was a melted chocolate chip. 

Unfit To Be A Brit …

Today I’m changing my Facebook profile picture to one of me with pink hair, in honour of one Mr. Bully Bennett (erratum: for ‘Bully’ read ‘Billy’). 

 
Yesterday (in response to a newspaper article) I posted a comment on the frequency with which one sees people in my neighbourhood out dog-walking clad in their pyjamas – skimpy pyjamas – even on cold winter afternoons. I rounded it off with some tongue-in-cheek speculation on what they might choose to wear when the weather gets warmer. 

     Along comes Mr. Bully. He proceeds to tell me that I am ‘cheap’ and ‘rough’, and goes on to criticise various of my hair colours and items of clothing, having clearly been into my Facebook profile to take notes. He then suggests that I need to ‘see to myself’ (?smarten myself up, or masturbate?) before commenting on other people’s wardrobe choices.

     When I thanked him for taking valuable time out of his day to look at all my photographs, he said he’d only done it to prove to himself that, whilst criticising what he called ‘us British’ for being scruffy, I was in fact a deplorable scruff myself. ‘You’re not fit to be British,’ he wrote. 

     Since when did traipsing down to the shop unwashed, still in your dressing gown and slippers become a core British Value?

     I’m a little confused as to what I need to do next to sort myself out and become fit to be a Brit. Do I embrace the British practice of going out in my sweaty, crumpled nightwear, or do I don a nice Norman Hartnell number, complete with headscarf like our dear British Queen?

     Since I am so clearly in need of sartorial advice perhaps Mr. Bully Bennett would be good enough to tell me exactly where on Saville Row he had his charming hoodie tailored. 

In the hope of finding a more presentable new look, I decided to try out the kind of fashions one frequently sees on the streets these days. Here’s a picture –  I’m sorry, it’s an artists impression only; I looked so damn good in that gear I broke the camera (ha-bloody-ha).