I think this blog should be sponsored by whatever organisation is currently in charge of London's effluvient at the moment. I really really really am not trying to drag you all into the gutter with me but sadly, that's where I live at the moment.
Today began with the opening of a very delayed Christmas parcel from my brother and sis-in-law (god bless Canada Post). This year's scatalogical present from my noble brother was an electronic fart machine with 6 different sounds. Needless to say, mixmaster Spud has been pressing buttons non-stop and today, we have all been farting. I have been farting in a sort of stacatto rhythm while the frog has been farting the mambo. The Spud's monkey has been farting Handel's Water Music and the spud himself has been farting the Beastie Boys. No doubt we will continue to do so until the batteries run out and beyond.
What I love about this is that it's called 'Dr. Fart'.
- 'Help, Help, my tummy hurts!'
- 'Never fear, Dr. Fart is here... one good blast and you'll feel MUCH better!'
All these fartsome frolics were some sort of ironic foreshadowing for the upset that hit both of my men this evening and which meant they both had to lie down complaining of sore tummies. This required me to leap from one sick-bed to the other for laying on of hands and bringing of fennel tea, not to mention the cladestine airing of rooms.
For my part, I have truly entered middle age as today I purchased (stop laughing) a 'lounge suit' with a wrap top which I love... soft slouchy trousers and a long-sleeved top just perfect for stuffing oneself full of dinner without the nasty hampering feeling of a proper waistband. My tummy, I'll have you know, feels wonderful. The fact that I am now dressed as a pensioner is of no concern to you. Just step away.