Down with the Brown.

and i don't mean just Gordon.  Although it would appear that most of the country seem genuinely relieved to see the back of him.  It's incredible to me how passionate the public get during a General Election when typically for three years and nine months prior mostly no-one gives a hoot.  However the minute the date for one is set, every man and his dog becomes an empassioned campaigner and finally if and when the existing government are decommissioned the reaction is as though we'd been liberated from some kind of Marcosian dictatorship.  I just don't get it.

No the brown I am actually more concerned with is the colour of my skin, post St Tropez bronzing lotion.  I had it applied on Wednesday by a dear friend who can now lay claim to seeing more of my crevices than Chris - how she manages to keep a straight face whilst doing her job I cannot fathom.   Personally I keep having flashbacks to the event and feel in need of some Post Traumatic Stress counselling.  Standing naked (bar a paper thong) with legs akimber whilst someone crawls beneath you on her hands and knees rubbing brown lotion on your wobbly bits (of which I have many) is a hard experience to forget.  But not quite on the scale of having your shredded post-delivery girly bits sewn back together by a doctor with his head between your legs and several students in the background observing.  After experiences like that nothing else should phase you I guess.  Except perhaps the fact that judging by his handiwork, said Doctor had clearly not received a sewing lesson in his life.

The things we women have been through.

This week my Ma has been looking after Maisey and Danny is off on the School Residential Trip.  I can't tell you how peaceful the house has been with just two children.  Getting ready for school in the morning has been a doddle, tea times have been polite and calm and the mood around the house is incredibly mellow.  So, either we've had two children too many or Danny and Maisey are the trouble makers.  I think it's just a case of four or more = bedlam.

Anyway can't really write much as I am off to Wolves and need to catch my train in less than an hour.  Between now and then I still have to peg out the washing, pack a case, get my breakfast and, quite randomly, find some fishing wire.   

If by any chance the headlines tonight are  "Fish wire garrotting in Wolverhampton" I assure you it wasn't me.