Sunday Bloody Sunday

I'll begin with an assurance: today's blog isn't a sequel to Friday's post, entitled "Warning: This One's About PMT". That would be too much information about me. Which is saying something. But don't get too comfy, because it's actually about chook poo. Waaaay too much information about chook poo. Specifically bloody chick poo. Whenever I pick up our new... Continue Reading →

Dark places

I went for coffee with an old friend yesterday. Well, she had coffee, I had Diet Coke (don't tell the Sprogs). She's divorced, no kids. I'm not. We hadn't seen each other for three years. She arrived in a fitted T-shirt, tight jeans and red stilettos. I shuffled up in a baggy T-shirt, cargo pants and sneakers. She'd been working in the city... Continue Reading →

Chickened out

It's a bit sad (as in pathetic) how much I'm enjoying the supermarket. Today's highlight: chatting to the Changeling's mother (aka my neighbour). After hazily recognising each other from the almost-reversing-over-her-toddler-in-the-driveway incident last week, we struck up a conversation in the fruit and veg department. She seems very nice. Her name is Georgie (must remember: Georgie, Georgie, Georgie).... Continue Reading →

Not neighbourly

Husband and I have been speculating about whether the Sprog next door is a changeling. It NEVER grows up - it's a permanent baby. It's all squishy and puggle-like and it's been doing that in-the-middle-of-the-night crying thing FOREVER. Very spooky. Well, it was until I saw the mother this afternoon, carrying a baby while a... Continue Reading →

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