...and still mobile free, so apologies to everyone I should be regularly phoning / sending nice sms's to, etc (Claire particularly springs to mind) because I en't got no one's numbers, being a nork, I never backed up my phone offline.
Back up your phone offline. Advice of the day. It's quite easy really. You use a pen and paper. Bah!
More pregnant woman advice: never get a cold when you're heavily pregnant. You've got enough pressure on your bladder already without having to rush off to the loo every time you sneeze or cough. I thought my immune system was supposed to be rock solid and protect me from these evil germans whilst I'm like this? Apparently not. Still, perhaps sprog will already be getting a good dose of antibodies as a result. If she's got a better immune system than me I will be *very happy*.
Heavy duty green goo, as opposed to grey goo is currently emanating from my nasal passages, thus demanding I breathe through my open mouth. This of course exascerbates my chopped-liver red raw sore throat.
If I move my head too quickly, I feel nauseous and fall over.
Apart from that, everything's just *peachy*.
(unsubtle mesage from today's almost entirely pointless entry: blurgh, leave me alone, I want to go to bed, winge, and sleep fitfully for the next 24 hours until the worst is over).
For those that don't know: my beloved is an actor, who had a couple of lovely years work as "The Professor", a character in a sitcom called "Time Gentlemen Please" which was developed and written by two good mates.
Anyway. So it's now on the Paramount Comedy Channel in the UK (plug plug) and, in case you've never seen it, also features the lovely Mr Phil Daniels, the king of Quadrophenia and star player in the classic single by Blur, "Parklife". Who it usually took me about half an hour before I could talk to him in any sensible kind of way given that I was standing there thinking "My god! It's Phil Daniels!" half the time (heh). Oh, and there's also Julia Sa... thingummy, offuv Absolutely Fabulous who is in it. She's very nice too.
Aaaanyway! Enough of the schpiel. You can now bash my beloved over the head with a newspaper c/o Paramount. It's not his voice though. Presumably they would have had to pay him so they got some geek or other to record the voice.
I assume that in 20 years when my beloved child reads this, the link will no longer work. Therefore if you would like to leave her a message explaining (nicely) anything to do with liking the show, or the game for that matter, then at least she'll know that someone, once did watch her Dad mess about with Phil Daniels, Julia Thing and get paid for it.
I seem to have bounced back slightly after having 2 reasonable nights' kip and managed to get a few things done at work. Anyway, this is long and boring igf you're not into the minutia of the management of community applications (who, me?) so I'd give it a miss if you're not.
When I was young, I looked upon the age of 30 with awe and trepidation, as if I couldn't *possibly* get to that age. Since it was also the year 2000 these two auspicious events colliding surely meant that I was made for great and wonderful things.
Now I measure my life, not in Starbucks wooden coffee stirrers but in monthly travel cards. Each one peels away another month of work purgatory, and pulls me closer to the next change in my life. I now have 2 months of work to go before I leave, to lie, sea-cow like on the sofa, wading my way through Matt's "Buffy" collection (much to Mackay's disgruntlement I have no doubt, and fair play, I mean it's hardly good use of my time but under the circumstances will I really want to do anythign other than lie down barking orders, trying not to grimace too hard when I sit up to have my herbal tea?).
She's now widening my bump so instead of it merely pushing forward, if you were to run your hands over my rib cage you would find an enormous, tumour like growth ballooning from the front and moving inexorably outward.
Sprog, my love (whose name will not be mentioned here until after the birth, well, that's my excuse anyway): You may blanche at me calling your current abode a tumour. However, please bear in mind that the chief definition of tomour is "a swollen or distended part". Which, my lovely wee girly, you are at present indelibly associated with.
Anyway, the point is she's got *so long to go*. Christ. I mean - where is the growth going to come from? there's only so much of me available to stretch! I now very much understand where Quinn's extraordinary stretch marks came from, given that Ada seemed to desire an internal residence about as spacious as mine appears to be. My mother, helpfully says "Oh well, pregnancies are all different you know". Oh, handy. Thanks! If you stuck a pin in my side right now, the amiotic fluid would shoot out like a fountain!
That, plus an awful increase in humidity meant no sleep again last night, after a long, looooong journey all the way across town on the very hot tube. At the lovely Mr Phil Gyford's flat for a belated housewarming I made the mistake of looking at my puce, sweating face in his very tasteful bathroom mirror. I won't do that again in a hurry.
Mr Six got on the train at Streatham today. He was in a city boy disguise, but it had to be him. Tousled too long hair, sideburns at a very neat but long length; drainpipe trousers in a delctably ironed pinstrip and immaculately polished chelsea boots, topped off with a pencil thin waistcoat and slightly too long length "I've got a personal tailor" jacket. Well done that man. Also carrying his newspaper in a Jermyn Street shirt tailor's bag. Nice touch.
The only things missing were the moustache and the shiny silver badge.
Tom, that's a terrible picture of him you've got there. You should use the delicious Bond artwork instead, he just gets Six to a *tee*.