I discovered this post lurking around in my drafts. Here it is in its glorious entirety published for your entertainment!

Have just found a thick wiry hair on the communal computer... Ur.

Back in Black... (Please scream title AC/DC stylee)

I'm back. At work that is. In fact, as we speak or more correctly as I type, the boys are here and someone who is not me is lining them up on the doorstep. It's a thing we do here. I probably should be standing on the step, but quite frankly there is no reason for three of us to stand there and stare at children. Well, I see no need when I'm supervising on my own. In the volcanic ash cloud/no fly zone that has become Europe this week we are missing 6 boys and 2 members of staff. A couple of good ones unfortunately. Plough on! Or KBO as "Winston Churchill" said in Doctor Who yesterday. This means 'Keep Buggering On' he claims. Now you'll pardon me for being aware of what the verb 'To Bugger' means. This was 6.30 on a Saturday afternoon!! Small children were preparing to hide behind the sofa. Keep Buggering On? There'll be a spate of that phrase turning up in creative writing all week. Damn you Doctor Who.

I'm slowly recovering from my many medical/osteopath appointments this week. I have been poked and prodded to within an inch of my life and if I have to take my clothes off in front of strangers (not in a sexy way!) ONE MORE TIME, so help me. Now I just have to wait for scary test results. (and coincidentally a pair of jeans - v. nice though. Possibly only pair of non-prestressed jeans existing in the whole of the world. Stupidstupidstupid. I can wear them out myself, stop helping!) Once these have arrived I can forget about doctors and just carry on with my range of clearly incurable afflictions for the rest of my natural life.

Should probably briefly show face around school and look busy or something...

In other news: While we were shoving the IKEA castle of flatpack furniture into the car, my mother, Tinge (her young man) and myself were all standing around trying to organise ourselves when Stupid dog emerged from the house at top speed slink and tried to cram himself in on top of the stuff. He thought we were all leaving without him and his little furry face was all alarmed and panicky. Had to take him back in and shut the front door until he calmed down and I could leave!! To go to work. Yay. And now my writing is gloriously circular. That's PLANNED, that is.

Girl's best friend...or forever?

Today, I went diamond shopping!!! Stop squealing. I'm not rethinking my hardheaded views on marriage. I'm making an investment. In the current dodgy economic climate I think that something large, sparkly and valuable would be a wise purchase. (Plus, eeeeeeeeeeeee! Sparkly!!) They don't devalue that much do they? Diamonds? I guess not. I went to Hatton Garden and it was quite the location. I only had a closer look at one, although many leapt out of shop windows at me, screaming 'Buy me! Buy me! Joan Collins wouldn't be thinking about it!!'

The shop girl said to me, when I was looking at the ring, 'Do take it outside and have a look in the sunlight'. There was a guy in a car by the kerb, specifically employed to watch over you and the v. expensive hand candy you were toting. Which is all very well, but I was completely unable to appreciate the interplay of light and diamond because I was standing in a busy street with about £10 000 worth of stones on my person. I kept thinking I'd drop them or someone would take them from me and the guard dog in the car seemed much more interested in the newspaper than me. I could have made a run for it. Though it would have been pointless, as both the rings I was looking at were way too small for my chunky fingers. So I decided against the fun option and went back in. Seriously, there are so many shops in the street. I must have looked in every window. Surrounded, of course, by happy and twittering couples looking at solitaires.

Still, I am slowly edging towards the opinion that women only marry for the ring, or you know, religious reasons, or tax so I figure that while I can afford it, and seeing as I'm not holding my breath on the marriage stakes I can buy myself a ring and cut out the middle man. (Perhaps I could also present it to myself down on one knee. Too much?) As an added bonus, it'll be something to sell in my retirement years as I have forgone getting a pension and will have lost all my money gambling. It should see me and my cat army through another year or so of gin and white gloves.

Another exciting and fun filled day of the Easter break.

Today I find myself alone, bored and inexplicably humming the theme tune to MacGyver. Also, the weird ear stuff finally started working. That was hideous, quite frankly. Have checked the label of the bottle and humming 80s TV themes is not a side effect. (Though a 'feeling of fullness' in the ear is...?) Perhaps after about 10 years of it being my default humming choice, The A Team has finally left me. No. It's really gone. Every time I try to hum the A Team, it ends up being MacGyver. Huh. I'm a bit sad about that.

Actually, I'm a bit sad generally. Must leave house. Must leave house. Must leave house...

Doctor. No.

I've been visiting my favourite surgery again. Actually, I've started with sarcasm, which is how I mean to go on. I hate the doctors and yet I seem to spend most of my waking hours there. This time my ongoing ear "infection" has been diagnosed as a build up of hard wax... WHAT? How has it taken four years and four GPs to find this out.
Doc 4 tells me I have to heat up olive oil and put it in my ear. Ew. I thought that as it was a build up of hard wax (which does kind of make sense) I'd buy myself some Earex drops and have done. It all went well until today when one of my ears is all sore and achy and crap. Even my jaw hurts. Death is probably imminent. I'm writing this solely so that those who live on after me can be aware of the danger of visiting a doctor with a non threatening ear condition. Of course, I probably should have listened and gone with the olive oil, but I'm pretending that didn't happen.