b.i.t.s, bits.

Can you spell like 13 (I think) year old Gayathri?

I loathe, loathe, loathe Eamon Holmes and in avoiding his fatuous fat-cheeked smug-arsed self avoided the programme; however, in my relatively stress free living room I got one wrong (no, I’m not saying, but I thought there was an em where there is an en).

Well done Gayathri – and a bigger well done for not wanting to use your free holiday of choice to go to bloody disneyland (that’s three times now the spellcheck has capitalised that place of horror, fear, dread where I will never, ever tread nor never, EVER capitalise). Nope, our hero wants to go to either China or South America, as she’s fascinated by the history of both. Wonder if she wants a chaperone … or a spare mum …

In other news, had a dose of the ghost of Christmas post this afternoon. (There’s definitely a poem there.) Can you guess which of the eighteen people in front of me in the snaking (tired image but true as the queue was as slow as a snake in winter) Post Office queue smelt of dirty bits?
Was it the woman with the cough and the dandruff?
It was not.
Was it the man with the seventeen parcels?
It was not.
Was it the couple who needed charts, diagrams and a full-blown Powerpoint presentation to understand that although you buy the stamp and receive your Airmail sticker at the counter, you stick them on and pop the card to Canada in the box yourself?
It was not.
Rosemary the telephone operator?
Nope.

It was the man behind me. Who crowded me, sliding nearer, his hand reaching past me to grip the rail across my hip. The man who brushed against my shoulder and - despite my desperate attempts at Big Old Circle Of White Light manifestation – breathed in my ear.

All the way through the countdown from eighteen to zero.

Yep, that was the chap who smelt of dirty bits.

Shower and Echinacea, then.

And another shower.