I don't mean to be mean, but

A whole day with him is such a trial.

Admittedly I would never have grubbed that bit of fence out on my own, I thought, but I mastered the bolt cutters and I got that last bit out so the jury should at least spend a little time on the question and possibly come down with a 'not proven' verdict.

The offspring recalled a rash promise made by one of us and so we went for an early screening of The Simpsons movie not long after a grotesquely large cooked breakfast. On the way out she decided the perfect way to round off a largely indolent day would be an indolent evening watching the current Bourne film which got the reviewers all hot under the collar and tipped the Bond/Bourne balance in favour of the latter despite Craig's tight trunks.

So I've now seen it. I'm not saying I followed it. Where did that young woman come from and why did she so abruptly switch sides and why didn't she pick up a gun and shoot that assassin and how did he get out of Tangier and to a viable identity and ... but our is not to question why, ours is to sit back and be dazzled.

I was chuffed to see Waterloo Station and environs - used to commute into there, years ago, then walk across the pedestrian bridge to catch a bus to the office, so I know the terrain well, or at least I once did before life ended up as it is, eking out a living at the arse end of England.

The twenty quid I won in the lottery this weekend doesn't enhance the escape fund by much.

Eh, bien.

Thus the male Ego

A couple of points.

First one is The Slug took the offspring to school today. He can't remember the last time he had to do that, and it isn't just the alcohol talking. So last night, when I got in from work, and before feeding myself, I prepared her lunch. And he saw me do that. "I can make sandwiches!" He wailed, all wounded and etc.

It wasn't his ability to make a sandwich I was doubting so much as his ability remember to do that in sufficient time to complete the process AND get the offspring to school on time.

And then there's Carl. All hairy (yes, I'm afraid I'm of that bent) chested-ness. And in training pants and singlet to collect his pay slip this morning. Reluctant to come into the office, lest he be raped by one of the sex-starved middle aged women inhabitants. Too Fucking Right. He only came in after I pointed out that there's a couple of security cameras, and I've no desire to star in a sex romp posted by one of our security staff on YouTube, or whatever.

Spider Pig

The Simpson's Movie, which I've not seen, includes a story line involving Homer and a Pig and featuring a song that has already acquired a life and renown of its own. You can see it on YouTube. You can download the song as a ring tone to your phone.

For those of you wishing to sing along in French here are the words in that language of this irritating little ditty:

Spider Cochon, Spider Cochon,
il peut marcher au plafond !
Est-ce qu'il peut faire une toile ?
Bien sur que non, zc'estun cochon.
Prends garde ...
Spider Cochon est là !

Nicknames

I've named her Pea-brain. None too affectionately either. The Big Swinging Dick refers to her as the Air Head.

The General Staff have taken to calling her Yoda, as in "Stupid I am, Blonde it is... Stupid I am, Blonde it is". So if I refer to Yoda you now know who I'm writing about. Ok?