Norway? No way!

I’m not sure if it’s the shock of having a teenager babbling about fairytales being ranked higher in the musical crème brûlée stakes than a man who is willing to shake out of his shirt, or that I'm suffering from a strain of kosher flu, but whatever it is, it’s prevented my fingers from coming close to gracing my coffee-stained keyboard.

Up until the shock of the Eurovision 09 / oinkless flueness, I hadn’t so much as sniffled in eight years, and had almost forgotten the joys of having a tissue permanently stuck to my face or the inside of my pant pocket.

So therefore I have decided to place a ban on watching all future Eurovision song contests, on the off-note chance that it was the upsetting distribution of 'points’ that made me feel so poorly!

Ms 12-points M.

Some like it… not

Winter has kicked in and it’s beginning to hurt.

Sure the rain is good for everything green, and we’ve barely got enough water to drink let alone suds our cars, but there’s something about the cast of grey that numbs my general outlook.

Maybe it’s just my third of a quarter of English heritage or that my knuckles are becoming achingly stiff.

Maybe it’s the frigid winds that make skirts a freezing impossibility.

Or maybe it’s just a lack of vitamin E?

Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s too much to ask if we could have just have a little bit of uninterrupted solar shine, and allocate the hours between two and seven AM for above average rainfall.

Ms bring-on-the-supplements M.

To not to do or not to do…

Ok so I might not be that much closer to being Australia’s next top anything, but at least I have expanded my list of things I don’t want to be:

Flatulence Analyst: a job that speaks for itself from both ends.

Barnyard Masturbator: although being hung like a horse is a good thing, this is a bit too close to the bone.

Carcass Cleaner: being vegetarian I tend to weep over lettuce hearts, let alone the best of what’s left of fluffy bunnies.

Sensory Deprivation Subject: I’m deprived of enough things as it is, to the point where I could already qualify as an expert.

Blue Cheese Factory Labourer: see Flatulence Analyst.

So although the above list is far from definitive, at least I have made some headway into what I don’t want to be doing, and therefore hopefully making the quest of what I do want to be spending the rest of my nine to fives on, slightly more conspicuous.

Ms getting-there-slowly-but-surely M.