It is Sunday. I am at my husband's best friend's lovely house - Do you remember the one we repaired to, in winter, when the weather meant we kept getting snowed in at home... This is the house with the all-white decor with tasteful nuances of rose; The house where I am afraid to move a lardy muscle, or even sneeze normally... I am the Mother of All Sneezers, and shopkeepers flinch in fear as I pass their bijou emporiums. I can break plate glass with my sneezules -
Why am I at my husband's best friend's house, sitting on his rose pink duvet, tippy-tappying upon a Georgian mahogany writing desk?
1. They are currently watching the Belgian Grand Prix;
2. This is at least where I have short-lived access to his t'Internet, which I have been without for ooh, well over four days now...
3. Did I tell you my husband's an IT techie person, manager, thingummyjig?
4. What that means is, like with busmen's holidays, he doesn't fix our stuff at home for he's world-weary of sorting other people's IT problems out twenty-four-seven, internationally, across wide oceans, interwebbily...
5. No.
6. "What do you mean I should have fixed it by now, Fhina?! Get bleeding stuffed!"
7. Meanwhile, Fhina lies bereft on a rose-pink velvet chaise longue.
8. Sighing.
9. Suffering.
10. With a long poker-face.
Please forgive my absences from your bloglettes? Mwah!
