Few happy returns

I awoke to an empty house this morning.
I had to drive to work, which meant I arrived in a bad mood.
Work was pretty stressfull.
I sweated in the gym - it's almost bikini season! (and people in bikinis
will laugh at me if I don't drop a few pounds. Must be careful not to pick
them up again)
I spent three frustrating hours stripping wallpaper. Last night it was five
hours.
The house is still empty.
I have just poured myself a glass of wine.

It is my birthday.



I'm being positive. It means I can eat, drink and scratch what i like. (I am currently doing all three)
Whooppeee!!

holy technobabble

This bloody new version of blogger keeps driving me nuts!

Every time I muster up a few remnants of the day's energy to blog, the bloody thing keeps asking me about passwords I've long forgotten - along with a host of other things I use to think were important, like the colour of Mrs S's eyes, the first Number One by Howard Jones and the capital of Mozambique.
(Only one of those answers is green but I'm not sure which).

Anyhoo, there I was, persuing around a pretty church is County Tipperary (which, disappointingly, isn't a long way at all) when I spy two elderly nuns struggle to carry a large bucket of holy water.
They both looked like they were about to collapse with exhaustion (but I suppose they had a helping hand from the bloke above) when I decided to do the Christian thing - quite a leap for me, given I'm borderline Satanist with a tendency to wear black and detsroy clergymen's homes at will* - and offer a lending hand.

It was doubly good of me, given that moments before, they'd accused Stark Jnr of being both male and Polish! Not that there's anything intrinsically wrong with either, just that she looks less male and Polish than most.

So, the big strong (and ocassionally atractive) man that I am, duly carried their bucket of the holy stuff to their car.
The first nun got in and sat in the passenger side. She then asked me to pass her the bucket, which was full to the brim and placed it at her feet.

The other nun got in the driver's side. They thanked me and drove off.

And I couldn't help but wonder - what would happen if they braked. Or turned a corner. Or just generally stopped? I had visions of a nun emerging from the car, totally soaked from the waist down, carrying an empty bucket.


*When I visited the minister who would marry the future Mrs S and I, I was upfrfont and told him I didn't believe in God (much to some violent nudging from the future Mrs S). At that exact moment, his living room wall collapsed. No, really. The look on his face said it all - get out heathen!

Actually, he did marry us and turned out to be an OK bloke.

Mysterious ways, eh?

What the...?

Hey, what happened?

Who stole March? Last thing I remember it was late February, Stark Jnr was teething/not taking a bottle/being grumpy/being incontinent, work was mental and I had a few "side projects" on the go.

In all this confusion, I clean forgot about you lot.

"Side projects" sounds distinctly dodgy, doesn't it? If only it were that exciting.

All that coupled with a "lock-out" of my Blogger account (they said I had to take gardening leave until I was funny again) meant Stark was AWOL. Personally, I blame the "side projects" and consequential delusions of grandeur.

Sorry for the vagueness, it just happens to be a convenient excuse for couldn't-be-arsed-ness.

Mrs and Jnr S and I are off to the land of black drink, soda bread and something called a crack for easter.

If I see a decent crack I'll bring back photos!!