I’m hot, I’m full of hay fever, I’m cranky, my house is a mess and my kid won’t go to bed.
(The library panel on Wednesday night was great fun, though. An evening talking books and writing with four other novelists, with a congenial and interested audience—what could be better?
It feels very far in the past tonight. Hello, Mr Pinot Grigio, where have you been?)
EDIT: One glass of wine and one hour watching Oprah on Diva TV has cured all of my woes. The house is still a mess, but what can you do?
My mistake. It was Mr Chablis.
Can you pour me a glass, please? My five year old has just told me that she would like to be a pole dancer. (She was watching Britain’s Got Talent)
Yes, tonight is a night for getting slightly (if not completely) bombed, I say.
Shoot, only have 4 cans of icky Carlsberg in the fridge.
Hating it.
Lara, a pole dancer?!?! Maybe she means a Pole dancer and she wants to do a lovely Polish folk dance?
Maybe?
Suz—the shops are still open! Go! Go! Go!
(OTOH Carlsberg isn’t too bad. Put ice in it.
)
OMG Lara has killed me. I hope she didn’t choke on anything when she received that gem of news. Just goes to show you that (Oprah aside) the television can be an evil instrument of torture