Chocolate Remorse

This morning, I found the dog lying in his bed, looking bloated and mournful.
The air was thick with remorse and there were five, yes five, Thornton's Praline Melts wrappers scattered by his side (significant as he is a Miniature Yorkshire Terrier and his stomach is probably the size of just one praline).
He had somehow managed to break into the packet and help himself. (This sort of thing is a peculiar talent of his - one Christmas he wrestled the lid off a tin of Roses. He was sicking up gilt wrappers for days.)
I hadn't the heart to remonstrate with him today though - after all, I know exactly how he feels: yesterday my own personal choc-fest began with a Creme Egg for breakfast and ended with a Twirl before bed....... Happy Easter everyone.

Hips on Tour

Today is my fabulous friend Susan's birthday and to celebrate we went for brunch. Just me, her and her Abercrombie and Fitch paper carrier bag - the one with the half naked hunk on the front who is probably, bless him, half our age but who brightened our morning no end. After all, what woman wouldn't want some man candy on her arm for her birthday?
After devouring a massive plate of pancakes with bacon and maple syrup, followed by a Mars Bar krispie slice and two lattes, I was pretty stuffed. Happy, but stuffed.
Off I waddled to a physio appointment for my back, neck and shoulders (many hours spent hunched over a computer means I am a tad on the Quasimodo side).
"Hmmmm....." the physio said as I lay, beached whale like, on the table. "Your right hip is very, very inflamed, did you twist it by any chance?"
"No," I said. "Not unless I pulled something reaching for the remote control."
"That's odd," she replied, puzzled.
And then it came to me.
I hadn't twisted anything: the pancakes, bacon, maple syrup, Mars Bar krispie and two lattes from brunch had simply bypassed my digestive system and gone straight to my right hip, where they nestled comfortably among the sizeable acres of flesh already enjoying a little R&R in that area.
"Ahhhhhh," they probably sighed as they settled in, "home sweet home."

No Nibbling Allowed

I went to a lovely "drinks and nibbles do" last night with a group of Irish booksellers, courtesy of Penguin Ireland. I was looking forward to it very much (a rare night out? yay!) and, to begin with, all went swimmingly.
There I was dolled up, nibbling on divine food and sipping champers (yes, really). It was just like a scene from Sex and the City, except I didn't have a designer handbag and I wasn't wearing couture.
The only fly in the ointment, if there was one, was the poor waiter. Every time he arrived with a new platter of food for us to enjoy, he looked like he was going to have a heart attack with the stress of trying to figure out where to put it. At one point I found myself volunteering to balance a platter on my knees just to calm him down. It didn't seem to occur to him to simply take some of the empty plates away to make some space.
Anyway, I excused myself to go to the loo (which was miles and miles away of course and meant a lot of wobbling on heels I hadn't worn in ages, but I tried not to mind because after all I was a gal about town for the night and the little things don't bother us).
When I eventually got there I did that quick check in the mirror, you know the one to make sure all the makeup hadn't slid off my face.
And that's when I noticed it. Something was winking back at me under the (frankly, very unbecoming) fluorescent lights. Something green.
In a flash, my Sex and the City fantasy came crashing down around my ears.
It was a gherkin. There was a large piece of gherkin lodged firmly between my two front teeth and there was no possible way people hadn't spotted it. I had been chatting to everyone with half a vegetable patch in my gnashers.
Bloggers, I almost locked myself in the cubicle with the utter mortification.
And so the moral of that story is - when you go to a drinks and nibbles reception do not, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, think you can actually eat anything.

Fairy Cakes Taste Sensation

Tomorrow is my birthday and tonight my darling daughter, ably assisted by my lovely hubby, baked some pre-birthday fairy cakes to celebrate. This pre-birthday treat is a new tradition here, but one I will definitely be encouraging going forward. (Fairy cakes tonight followed by Rice Krispie buns and Victoria sponge tomorrow. What's not to love about that sort of delicious tradition?)
The topping on these little moues of perfection was icing mixed with strawberry jam (a new taste sensation - you heard it here first).
Bloggers, they were DIVINE. So divine I ate three in a row. Ooops. I just couldn't help myself - you're never too old for fairy cakes, that's what I say. Of course, my hips might disagree, but I'm well used to ignoring what they think. That's another advantage of getting older - you can simply tune out what you don't want to hear..............It's a skill I have just about perfected.

Toffy Pops Escape Unharmed

I dropped my lovely friend Lol to the airport the other day for her flight back to Oz. I dread going to the airport. It's such a cruel place: the goodbyes are always "Love, Actually" heart wrenching and if that isn't enough to traumatise you, now there's the possibility of a full body pat down to contend with too.
"I hope they don't search me," Lol said as we stood forlornly at the Departure Gates. "If they take my Toffy Pops, I'll crack up. "
"Stick out your bump and look hassled," I advised, snuffling sadly into my sleeve. "They might take pity on you."
In fairness, this wasn't going to be much of a stretch: six months pregnant, with an active toddler in tow and a 24 hour flight to face, she was pretty hassled already.
Laughing through our tears at the thought of security wrestling her to the ground and confiscating the precious stash of Toffy Pops smuggled in her carry-on, we said our goodbyes.
A few minutes later, I got a text to say she had sobbed the whole way through luggage check and the kind staff had felt so sorry for her that they had given her a wheelchair for her bags and the toddler, so she could navigate her way through Duty Free. Even better, the Toffy Pops had escaped unharmed.
I am delighted to report that they went on to survive the flight and are, as I write, being carefully dunked into steaming mugs of Barrys Tea in a Sydney townhouse. Now there's a happy ending if ever I heard one.

Three Questions

Over breakfast today, my six year old carefully munched his bagel and asked:
a) Why is cookbook one word, not two? (There was a cookbook on the table. An unused cookbook I should add.)
b) Why can you see the veins on the inside of your wrists so clearly and not on your tummy?
(I suspect he would like to have wormy veins visible everywhere if he could)
c) Do rabbits ever get tired hopping? (That one was just random)
All this and I hadn't even had my coffee yet..........

I am not It

In a hotel lobby this weekend, I momentarily dropped my precious bag of Maltesers when a stunning leggy redhead swept through the foyer. What was it about her that had everyone, including me, transfixed? Was it her magnificent camel coloured cashmere coat with its cutting edge angular jutting pockets? Her gleaming over-the-knee boots that were the length of my entire leg? The amazing mane of glossy red locks that tumbled down her back?
Who knows. But the girl had "it" and, as I watched her, with my scuffed high street boots and chipped nails, I fleetingly wished I had "it" too. Sadly, I know only too well that sweeping grandly about is impossible when you're five foot two and your hair has never seen a glossy day in its frizzy life. I will never have "it".
But a half-eaten bag of melted Maltesers in my pocket? Now that I have.