Tuesday 10th May

Apologies to anybody who logged on yesterday in the hope of reading yet another gripping instalment of the monotony that is my life.

I was fretting this morning about having missed a day and the Teenager, clearly moved by my plight, put an arm supportively around my shoulders and encouragingly pointed out that people do actually have lives of their own and will probably have made it through the day without the benefit of my input.

As he walked up the stairs I’m pretty sure I heard him muttering something about ‘rats-arses’ but don’t quote me.

My reluctance, in the diarising department, was wholly due to an inability to adequately express the delight I experienced when properly introduced to my new husband (via Facebook chat).

Without the benefit of Appletinis, it was a tragic odyssey of discovery that makes Saw II seem, in comparison, like a mildly cautionary tale.

Anyway, the object of my affection, guardian to my children, Mr Darren Northill is, he chidingly reminded me, in light bulbs.

He lives, ripe old age of 42 notwithstanding, with his ‘Old-Dear’ and has a season ticket to the Arsenal.

When enjoying downtime from the frenetic world of light bulb sales, he likes to spend his free time either at the ‘Kaff’, at the ‘footie’ or, lest we forget, down the pub.

Apparently, Saturday night saw me fairly heavily involved in a heated discussion with my intended about the merits of bayonet versus screw-threads but, as is the nature of any true suitor, he was initially happy to indulge my tendency toward strongly held opinions.

Said indulgence came to a shuddering halt when I began to lay, quite eloquently, into the technology and practical usefulness behind low-energy fluorescence.

He didn’t, upon reasoned reflection, feel that my use of the term ‘complete and utter dross’, was really necessary, or indeed scientifically accurate.

LOL-ing away on Facebook like an eight year old, he admitted that my stroppy behaviour had briefly caused him to question my suitability as his future wife but, since my arse had looked so nice in those jeans and Stevie-Boy had advised him to ‘get it while it was still hot’, he threw caution to the wind and went ahead with the ceremony anyway.

This may be the first time that a marriage has ended with the plaintiff deleting the respondent from their friends list, but I’m afraid that his is one feed that I can live without.

Where are all the wealthy, Plato reading, landowners hiding?

Apparently, not down the town centre clutching a pint of Carlsberg and verbally abusing the fruit machine.

Who knew?