Slavering Tongue Required for High Priestess of Ultimate Excuses

I've spent so long nosing through everybody else's blogs that I've now lost the will to write. But I love this connection to the outside world that doesn't involve me getting to the end of someone's sentence still smiling, or getting to the end of the sentence at all - if I've heard enough - goodbye. Next! Come on entertain me. '....and then we went to Sainsburys and-' Next! '....causing a mild rash with some discharge-' Next! '....with Graham Badma-' Next!

And nobody can see me. Obviously I am the devastatingly statuesque, 5' 11' of pertness held in perfect squelch of polished latex, oozing musk and purring over luscious home-made Baked Alaska in my pure white shag-pile Sindy house that I'm sure you lesser bi-peds aspire to.......

I am.

And texting - HOORAY. The choice to be there - or to have never known anything about it and the baby was playing with the phone and what a shame I missed it.....

Some call it anti-social. Actually I do but I'm learning to accept my condition. I'm starting a new support group for anti-social gits but I don't suppose anyone will turn up to the meetings. I won't.

But a wonderful slant on the whole phone thing came my way this evening (my final counselling session it was!) The intrusion of the telephone is not a particularly ingrained human necessity - the phone in every house thing is relatively recent (certainly in terms of homo sapiens' evolution) - and my gut reaction of 'who the bloody hell's that now?' is not especially unreasonable. This made me sit up straighter with a faraway presidential look in my finally understood eyes. (I now need purple prose counselling. 'Step away from the adjectives.') My converted love of the mobile due to the blessed text device is simply the reclaiming of my personal space. ('Move slowly. Do not touch the thesaurus. You can do this.')

Having a bit of trouble with my new swanky-pants slidey-uppy phone tho' - send at least 3 half-baked foreign language texts for every one decipherable one. But at least I could give little Rock Godling his phone back - (yes he is six, yes it was a spare from when Himself's posh one had to be mended after Thuglet used it as a golf club, no it has no Sim, yes he can play the Snake Game on it...) The trouble was, now he had seen it in action, he wanted it to work properly and suddenly knows what a Sim is and everything. Still moaning about it the next day, through my 'la la las' I still managed to hear 'I can't live without a Sim!'

Another fab thing from tonight's session came up after the usual mutterings along the lines of 'where does the day go? Three hours will have passed and I don't know what I've done...etc' And guess what? (You'll like this.) I'm not crap at time management or lazy or inneffective - I've been LIVING IN THE MOMENT.

OH YES! Worship at my unpolished toenailed feet!

Worth every penny.

Sorry - obviously not unpolished toenails. Although you'd never know through the 6" cyber-goth platform buckled thigh high fuck boots.