Well, that’s not exactly true. … this post isn’t about sex. That was my blatant attempt at grabbing your attention….it worked though, didn’t it? Admit it! You thought I was going to talk dirty on here at last. You were expecting explicit revelations. Breasts do get a mention – well, that was it - right there, actually.

Sorry to disappoint you.

Unbelievably for me, (ask my detractors,) I am speachless. I am postless. My verbal diarrhoea has turned to galloping lethargy.

I yearn to write something existential and interesting, not mundanely blathering on about the lack of drama. What type of saddo would wax lyrical about that? Well, obviously I would!

Maybe I’ll try posting slightly buzzed – at least I would find it entertaining, even if you didn’t.

There is one small thing I’d like to share with you. On my internet wanderings, I came across one delightful, short video animated work by the artist Charlie Sofo. You need to CLICK on the little thumbnail image of a bird on a wire – top left.

Enjoy.

Any suggestions for an appropriate method of torture for neighbours who run their lawn mower at 7:45 on a Sunday morning?

Just like every teenage aficionado of “Guitar Hero”, the Teenage Grunt thinks he’s the only one to have ever had the epiphany moment of deciding he wants to be a rock star.

Oh great gulping joyfulness and deep ambivalence!

Just what I’ve always wanted for my only child. THANK GOODNESS FOR ALCOHOL.

Struggling not to inhale my teeth, I could foresee all the groupies, drugs, tattoos and bodily piercings I had to look forward to. Also the delights of expensive guitars, amplifiers, ripped jeans, black eyeliner and music lessons to anticipate. And let’s not forget the noise. In our little terraced house? With our nightmare neighbours?

Knowing that he’s already perfected the required snarling, disdainful attitude was one comfort.

Never knowingly predictable, however, this ordinarily pain-in-the-butt has selected a sensible approach to his newfound fixation.

I know - my eyebrows have risen so far up my forehead, that I’m having them surgically lowered next week.

My theory is that he’s trying out a new shock tactic on us.

The (poor quality) pictures below illustrate how the requisite rocker hair is coming along – as well as the change in his temperament. Not only has his hair gone from textured crop to shapeless mop, it’s plain to see the subtle shift that has crept into his persona, from scornfulness to agreeableness.

Wonder how long he can keep it up? Next week, I put red-rockin’ lightning flashes in his hair.

Why can’t we just have the Summer heat without the humidity?

Why do I spend so much time doing my hair, knowing the humidity will make it look like a limp rag in no time at all?

Why is the word “phonetics” not spelt “fonetiks”?

Why do I procrastinate? (I’ll answer that later.)

Why is my son able to identify the model of a sports car, a mile away, but cannot find the ketchup in the refrigerator?

Why do I think it so amusing when I tell family members to *just blog off!*?

Why am I so short of posting material for my blog that I have to resort to this *Why* list?

Why is it that I crave time alone, yet when I get it, I hope everyone will come home soon?

Why do I keep getting e-mails asking me if I’m interested in penis extensions or nipple enhancements?

Why do I care?

Why can I never eat just one chocolate?

Why do people push the lift button more than once, when it is clearly on its’ way?

Why do so many people fret about growing old, without realising how privileged they are to be able to do so?

Why don’t sheep shrink when it rains?

Why is the quality of life in Britain going down so quickly?

Why does the queue I choose to stand in at the supermarket always becomes the slowest one?

Why do people in my kitchen not wipe the work surface when they spill something?

Why am I rapidly turning into my mother?

Why not?

Why does it take six women with PMS to change a light bulb? IT JUST DOES! (My husband asked me to put that one in.)

Why does my son make me want to strangle him one minute, but fill my heart with pride the next?

Why do people say “think positive” when they mean “think positively”.

Why do people place such importance on shallow celebrity and fame?

Why isn’t Kermit real?….and Santa, still haven’t come to terms with that one.

Why am I doing this list?

Why do I rely so heavily on caffeine, chocolate and sarcasm?

Why do traffic lights change to red whenever I approach them?

Why is everyone in this house so damned cheerful first thing in the morning before I’ve had my coffee?

Why does my husband say he’s hanging on my every word when he clearly isn’t?

Why do I ask so many questions?

Why does Keanu Reeves keep pestering me for my ‘phone number? (Oh wait, I think I just imagined that one.)

Why does my teenager look so angelic when he’s sleeping?

I’m just asking!

Yikes! Mild panic setting in - the school summer break has landed and I’ve neglected to make (survival) plans in advance for a smooth ride.

I’m sure there will be numerous moments to treasure amidst the chaos, panic and disorder that will inevitably ensue.

Make mine a double!

Another tedious day in a soul-gnawing Mayfair office. Understandably eager to get home, I hurled myself and my unprovocative suit (even Jaeger have sales!) amidst the unappealing heave of bovine commuters.

Contorting my body – I strained to keep my nose out of raised armpits and my butt from the faces of seated passengers – wearily accepting of the typical cattle-truck mayhem of the London underground rush hour.

With my back jammed against the exit doors, I had the misconception that I’d be avoiding peoples’ body parts. WRONG!

Was I imagining it? I almost shook my head to clear it. Was there really a clammy hand ….cre-e-e-e-ping it’s way up my right thigh?

I swung my head to the (obvious) right – not the couple embracing - only doors behind me - to my left, a tall, slim man of mixed race – African features with gingery hair and freckles. He was directly in the corner with his head turned away from me.

I remember thinking, *You’re practised at this eh?* I kept my nerve. I don’t know how. My instinct was to yelp, shriek and fling myself about. It was one of those moments when things switch to slow motion. Similar to an out-of-body experience, I was calmly detached, observing the events from a distance, almost giving a commentary in my head.

The entire incident only took about fifteen seconds. It’s amazing what can happen in such a short space of time.…although it seemed like fifteen minutes.

I cooly allowed him enough time to feel comfortable – he was after all, moving slowly, relishing every centimeter gained - and I knew we were seconds away from the next stop, when the doors would spring open and the heebie-jeebies would end. Slowly, carefully, I slid my carrier bag to the floor and readied myself for my next move.

Gropers rely on the fact that most women, surrounded by strangers, would be too shocked and embarrassed to confront them, so rather than cause a scene they pretend nothing unusual is happening. Not this time.

The train squealed to a halt and, before he could seize his targeted area, I deftly grabbed the offending hand by the wrist, thrust it into the air and yelled to the bemused crowd:

*Ladies and Gentlemen! Has anyone lost this? Only I found it half way up my skirt!*

I didn’t hang around to see if the fish-slapped expressions on the rest of the commuters had changed to relieved grins. My eyes were riveted to the fleeing figure of the lecherous creep who was running as fast as he could, barging his way through the crowds.

As far as I was concerned, the degenerate was free to take his colostomy-bag coloured trousers, together with his delusions of adequacy and slime back under his rock.

The next day I traveled by bus:

My first rust-bucket car was an old banger. Beneath the flaking paint, was a navy Fiat (don’t ask me which model) with a nippy engine, that sporadically went on strike after a sudden brake.

Which is what occurred at a major road junction - with my car at the front of the queue. The ignition just sulked and refused to fire.

Several traffic light changes later (cringe!) someone started leaning on their car horn. A glance in the rear-view mirror revealed a luddite hog with his wife and three teenagers in an SUV.

I chugged away at the ignition until the hooting was accompanied by shouted abuse and fist-waving. Have I mention his resemblance to a pig?

Assuming a contrite, apologetic demeanor, I left my vehicle and edged up to his car window.

In a helpless, flustered voice, I asked if he’d mind trying to start my car for me.

He dramatically heaved his swinish form from his seat, accompanied by an expansive *mans’ gotta do* sigh and started towards my car.

That’s when I chose my moment to loudly add *And then I’ll sit in YOUR car and honk the horn at YOU – to see if it helps at all*.

He took another step, then comically, right foot still in mid-air, he executed an almost balletic revolving manoeuvre, so that he was facing me again, fleshy, porcine jowls still juddering with surprise. Other drivers had exited their cars by now and he found himself with an audience.

Flushed at my own boldness I fretted that I’d pushed him too far. Thankfully, the torpid silence was broken by loud cheering and clapping – by his wife!… his children joined in.

He managed to skew his features into something resembling a resentful smile before he and the rest of the male gathering (finally) pushed my car onto the curb -leaving space to drive around me.

The next post describes the pièce de résistance in my repartee repertoire.

Yesterday, the teenager described his annoyance that he’d only hatched an acerbic retort to a lippy remark, too late to have any effect.

That’s so irritating! I’m sure you’ve all wished you had a speedy witticism ready to respond with in similar circumstances?

He could do worse than take lessons from the put-down king, Simon Cowell, who memorably described a hapless X Factor contestant as being “the epitome of a Saturday night - two bottles of wine and karaoke.”

It reminded me of chatting with friends, when I was a single woman endeavouring to exert a semblance of nous. (And by nous, I clearly mean irresponsible and dead broke.)

We’d all done waitressing stints and were swapping anecdotes of good put-downs for the more atrocious customers.

‘Trish regaled us with an incident when, to claim her attention, one arrogant customer repeatedly beckoned and whistled loudly at her, as if she were merely a pet dog in the park. Eventually, her sardonic rejoinder was…*What d’you want me to do - bark or piss up a tree?* …Not sure if she received a good tip on that occasion.

There and then, I distinctly remember making up my mind not to be caught unprepared in future - to utilise some of the more pertinent comebacks we’d discussed.

My next post will relate with relish, the first of two such incidents, to anyone who will listen.

Last night, cross-eyed with reading about coding and plugins – hot steam rising from (what I whimsically call) my brain - I started to contemplate why I put myself through this intense, time-expending torture.

Starting as I did, with a fresh, jaunty approach - two alarming-site-crashes later, (rescued by the supremely patient and assisted by the accomplished) I’m now wondering what I’ve let myself in for….again!

Even if it is time to put my shriveled frontal lobe through some stretching exercises, I need to remind myself that I cannot expect to learn all about coding and web-building from scratch overnight. Also, my methods of self-education are very questionable.

I’m making a start by deciding what NOT to do.

Snort!

I’m NOT doing anything more dangerous than tweaking the Default theme for now….and I’m proud to say that I think my site has the potential to reach mediocrity.

My fingers are crossed… and probably my wires too.

I know. How did I ever make it this far?

Abuse welcome.