The spring rash has started. I've been careful not to walk in the grass because Eric the Mower hasn't been and it's getting a bit out of hand, so no rash on the legs. Great lumping cat comes in last night plonks his head down on my chest and goes to sleep and by the time I'm going to bed, rash is up and going. I know where's he's been, I could smell it. He's been rolling in the flowering Jasmine on the back fence. I just forgot I had on a dress with a low neckline. Of course it could be the election that's making me break out in itches. What a load of prats. If I never see Clive Palmer's face again it will be a good thing. I'm not watching the polls, I'll be watching Harry Potter and eating chocolate to calm my nerves. I might take a peek to see who is winning in LaTrobe because the Lib there is someone I detest and if he does win, I hope he celebrates so much he falls over a cliff.
Good news though, coming past the local school, there is a big sign: Saturday, BBQ and Cake Stall and underneath, polling booth. Priorities right on the mark.
And Andrew your taste in men is appalling so you're not ever getting one for your birthday again. Nothing wrong with redheads either as long as their eyes are green. Now put your comments back to pop-up box, I miss insulting you so much.
I see footballers haven't learnt much this season but setting fire to a dwarf is lowering the bar to a new low. Never mind what they're injecting themselves with, why doesn't someone test whatever is in the water they're drinking. Oh silly me, water? Test the beer, vodka, gin, whiskey or whatever else they're pouring down their gullets. String up the next idiot from the goal post by his feet for the duration of the match and maybe some brain matter will dribble down to where it should be.
Crap I hate football and whining cricketers, if they ever take up politics, I'll take up offshore swimming.