Why is Victoria fast becoming the swiniest state of them all?
Is John Elliott to blame or is it something more sinister and closer to home?
It’s a well documented fact that sexiness and dishes aren’t great bedfellows; meaning the more dishes and dusting and ironing and overall disgustingness there is, the less sexy I feel, which explains why my apartment is currently a brothel.
Not a brothel in the good sense with people getting paid to bonk and slithers of safe sex in bins, but a seedier, lack of laundered linen and stains bringing back painful memories kind of red-lit emporium.
My fear is that one of these misty mornings I will open the door to government authorities wanting to quarantine my apartment as the source of all things Miss Piggy.
So I have hid the crayons just in case they connect the dots and have begun the search for a thing called a vacuum cleaner.
Ms 42-and-oinking M.
