Ms. Mac Is Alive and Well!

After a worryingly long silence, I received this sxt msg from Ms. Mac on Saturday night:

Dearest French Fancy,

Many apologies for lack of communication. No excuses, just been busy shopping, eating, shopping, eating, socialising and getting sick. Poor Mr. Mac has come down with one of his infamous bouts of tonsillitis, which is nice. Just about to pack him off to bed and settle down to a Billy Connolly DVD – a Saturday night to remember for sure.

Boys all well, family all well, except for coughs and colds to rival anything Typhoid Mary could throw at us!

Hope goose was a triumph and lobster and champagne flowed freely!

More later my dear….

Quisses!


Antipo replied:

Dearest Florence Nightingale/Party Animal,

Aha, so now the sad truth comes out! I had previously assumed that your long and dreadful silence had been forced upon you by the technological limitations of our little phones. I envisioned you sexting me sadly every day to explain how deep was your sorrow at our enforced parting, but that the puny radio waves (or fibre gloptics, or whatever they are) of your trusty mobile were simply incapable of penetrating the mighty Scottish Highlands. Or perhaps your precious daily missives were falling out of the sky and into the Loch Ness…

But now all is revealed and I must bear the pain of knowing your cruel neglect was due to the vast quantities of FUN and Christmas cheer you were having! Perhaps your sick hub and virulent children are a biblical punishment inflicted upon you by Little Baby Cheeses. May you learn from your errors!

Have just delivered eldest offspring to the French grandparents: I need a break from the endless arguing and teenage angst.

We lunched upon my MIL’s wabbit bwaised in wine and home-grown tomatoes, served with green beans with lashings of garlic and home-grown potatoes fried in goose fat, many fab French cheeses, buckets of Beaujolais nouveau (hic!) and a galette des rois (flaky pastry pie with creamy almond filling). Coffee was served with chocolate-dipped alcoholic cherries. I LOVE this country!

Luckily my walk to the railway station took me up a mountainously steep hill, even if I did have to load my belly onto a wheelbarrow before achieving movement.

Am now going on a hot date to the cinema with a witty and scintillating companion – myself!

I know you would rather be with me than soothing Mr. Mac’s fevered brow, but inconvenient husbands are a cross we have to bear. Kiss all your boys for me, but be sure to keep their germs in bonnie Scotland!

Fondest love and over-fed kisses,
HP
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Stella replied:

Oooh! Big news! I cut all my hair off! Not Britney style – all classy like. Also been reading Russell Brand – nice, ‘citing!

Your food all sounds delightful. Ours has all come out of supermarket convenience food shelves. Going in to see The Golden Compass now, which will be a challenge, seeing as I’m currently crippled with sciatica – ouch!

Love to all for now.
xxx xxx xxx

Sunday Afternoon Enquiry Into Ms. Mac’s Good Health

Dearest Mrs McTartan,

I am enjoying a gentle stroll in poetically pale winter sunshine, sans enfants! So I can indulge in a spot of sexting you, without having my very ponderous train of thought interrupted by “Maman! He won’t get off the computer!” and “But I haven’t finished my combat yet!”

Aaaah, the silence and fresh air are like fine wine. Am feeling very smug not to be fighting my way through sweating hordes of last minute Christmas shoppers.

Have you bumped into Paolo Nutella or Billy Connolly yet? Are you eating kippers and haggis for breakfast every day? Are the mini-Macs behaving like wee angels, or have you had to resort to the “Father Christmas won’t come” threat?

Much love and serene kisses,

Mrs Dreamy McTranquil
xxxxxx

She Hasn’t Forgotten Me!

I managed to harrass The Lovely Ms. Mac sufficiently by sxt msg (“Darls, how is Scottish Pilgrimage road trip progressing? Missing you horribly. I may never recover from the trauma. Love and sedentary kisses, Antipo xxx”); to the point where she felt obliged to answer me.

She sxted me from Folkestone this afternoon, where they had arrived safely, thanks to the new woman in her husband's life: Mrs TomTom SatNav. They managed all those miles without murdering the children or capsizing the ferry in a tragic Christmas Present Overload Accident.

Antipo to Ms. Mac:

Darls! I can’t believe you are already in the Land of Walkers Crisps and Rowntrees Fruit Pastilles. Will you get me some Rollos and a Curly-Wurly?

Am rather pissed off that my wee “surprise” parcel did not arrive in your letterbox before your departure. I posted it two weeks ago! Bastarding Post Orifice. When The Lovely Andi posted her stunning framed photo to me it only took five days to get from Ohio to France!

I do hope your bum is lovely and warm, unlike mine.

Ms. Mac: Oh Dear, bad Stella! The little “surprise” did arrive last Friday, and I put it straight under the tree and forgot to say Frank You! It’s waiting for me when I get home where I won’t have to share it wif anyone!

Just had Marks & Spencer sangas for lunch: Aberdeen Roast Beef and Ale Chutney, shared with a King Prawn and Loch Muir Salmon with Craigie. Yumm, yummmm.

Things I love: cruise control in the neo-classic Mercedes and M&S sangas!

Missing you horribly!
Xxx xxx xxx


Antipo: Oh thank God the "totally surprisey surprise" arrived safely after all! You can spank me later.

8 pm

Antipo: Darls, feel free to send me any words you want blogging. It would bring such joy to my drab little loife.

So have ye reached Bonnie Scotland yet? I suppose you are drinking whiskey and Tossing the Caber all over the place. Better your caber than your cookies! I suppose you’ll bump into Paolo Nutella down the pub every night.

In other celebrity news today, The Lovely Kristin in Arizona sent me SIX (6!) packets of ranch dressing mix! You wouldn’t believe how happy this makes me. Actually you would believe it, even if other infidels wouldn’t. Kristin and I are just about Best Buddies now. All she wanted in return was naked pictures of my hamster. But don’t worry, you will always be my first Apfelwähe Love. Yes, I am a little tipsy tonight, why do you ask?

Remember, I will be blogging all subsequent sxts from you. I have nothing better to do!

Hot lurve and French kisses,
Antipo
xxx

Ms. Mac: How very kind of you! You could stick our sxts on the Naughty Blog if you like, if you deem them funny enough, of course!

In Bonnie Scotland since about 15 mins ago. When we crossed the border, James asked “Is that it? That’s us in Scotland?” He obviously expected pipers in kilts and perhaps a tattoo (the military kind, of course!). How disappointing for him.

Only an hour or so before we get to Mum’s! Please God, let me not kill the boys by then!

Och aye the noo, hen!
Xxx xxx xx

She's Gone

In the tuneful words of Darryl Hall and John Oates:

She's gone, oh I, oh I'd better learn how to face it
She's gone, oh I, oh I'd pay the devil to replace her
She's gone - what went wrong?

Yes, I am sunk into the deepest depths of gloom, as my beloved Ms. Mac makes her annual Scottish pilgrimage to the Wild North to celebrate a doubtless rollicking good Christmas. My working day will be bereft of cheeky emails and the hilarious minutiae that make up her Domestic Goddess existence.

All day today she’ll be speeding along the European motorways in her fab new car, with its amazing bum-heating seats, pausing every now and then in her witty conversation with The Lovely Mr. Mac to turn and shriek like a fishwife at the Naughty MiniMacs in the back seat.

I hope she at least logs on to our blog with her laptop to read these words, so she can feel very smug for herself and very sorry for me at the same time.

Dearest Missus Busy and Important,

I suppose you are neck-deep in suitcases and pressies, packing for your Scottish Odyssey. I can't believe you are actually going to leave me for, what? one… or TWO long, horrible weeks? Am feeling very glum indeed. Even if you take your laptop ‘puter with you, I know you will be far too busy chatting to people and HAVING FUN to even think about and e-mail me on a regular basis.

My mystery man and I had a very soapy and slippery shower together in last night’s dream. It was extremely pleasant. I might tell you all the details if you promise not to forget about me while you’re gone.

Lurve & hot hot chocolate kisses,

Antipo
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Dearest Ms. Naughty Mac,

I think the reason you like proclivities so much, is because it makes you think of clitoris.

Well, that's why I like it.

Love and pervey kisses,
Ms. Tellin' It Like It Is

Witch's Tits

Dearest Madame Secretary Supreme,

I think I have fallen in love with the word proclivities. The movements one makes with the tongue while saying the word proclivities please me greatly and arouse me a little. I shall try to ensure I include the word in as many conversations as I can today. Sadly, I live in a German-speaking country and have no friends so unless I talk to myself all day, the chances to do so are going to be very slim. Oh well, I'll be alone so nobody will hear me.

I've been out for my walk today and I don't mind telling you it's flummin' freezin' out there today. I even raided Ewan's wardrobe for a hat to keep my ears warm, it's so cold. The hat smelled of boys bedroom and schoolbag- yeech! I also put on my waterproof walking jacket to keep out the bitter wind chill and I don't mind confessing, I seem to have gained enough weight through the year to stretch the seams to their absolute limits. I forsee a New Year's Resolution involving self denial and many other non-fun activities.

What do you imagine your new duties as Madame Secretary Supreme will entail? Will you be performing your duties in your tutu and en pointe? I do hope there will be photos. As, I'm sure will many, many of your adoring fans.

My naughty martini hangover has subsided at last. Household duties resume normal service today.

I do hope the contents of nameless, faceless dream man's trousers was interesting. How awful if you'd made all the effort to unbuckle a belt and unzip a fly, only to find that the "good stuff" was as bland as the rest. Although, you know men.....

I shall leave you now before descending into a hormonally charged rant about our male counterparts.

With sistahly love and quisses,

S
xxxxxxx

Dearest Missus Pervey McCradleSnatcher,

I can indeed appreciate the attraction of young Cedric Diggory for you, as we are both paid-up members of the Paolo Nutini Filthy Old Ladies' Appreciation Society. However, I fear that our jailbait proclivities will one day land us in hot water.

So rest assured, the Sexy Mystery Man currently haunting my dreams is all grown up. He is however, an entirely imaginary, nameless and faceless entity. I have not yet seen his face because I have been too busy looking inside his trousers.

In other nocturnal news, I did not spend last night composing Lengthy Odes to Ms. Mac, as you may have noticed. I was called to an emergency meeting of the Ballet School's Board of Directors. The current President, Secretary and Treasurer all resigned in a dramatic turn of events, and the Ballet School was threatened with closure. The meeting dragged on for hours, with nobody wanting to volunteer to fill the new positions. In the end, three of us (desperate to get home and to bed) found themselves voted on to the new Board. I am honoured (I think) to accept the position of Esteemed Secretary, and you may henceforth address me as such if you so desire. Just think, I will probably be rubbing shoulders with the mayor at the end-of-year dance recital!

I sincerely hope your evening was as action-packed as mine. Or, perhaps not, if you are still nursing your Naughty Martini Hangover from Saturday....

Hot love and administrative, efficient kisses,
Missus Esteemed Secretary of the Quaint Village Ballet School.

P.S. I’m trying not to let it go to my head, but I do feel that Mine is the Power and the Glory now!

Dear Antipo

I am so pleased to be the recipient of such a positive epistle today telling of a wonderful Sunday filled with such culinary delights and treasures. For, while someone was pouring their soul onto t'internet on Saturday night, I was busy entertaining guests which lead to a hangover of gargantuan proportions all yesterday. Oh, how my head pounded. Each thump from the hangover hammer punctuating a stream of syllables as such; when. thump. will. thunk. you. thump. ever. thunk. learn. thump. ? thunk.

I suspect it was the sneaky extra apero martini I had before our guests arrived what done it.

My cherubic son Ewan managed to get me out of a spot of free childcare for a woman I don't know this afternoon. Earlier this morning, I received a phone call from a mother of one of Ewan's friends who asked if I would be kind enough to have her son over to play this afternoon while he and Ewan are free from school on a Monday. I rolled my eyes and sighed but agreed to do it because of my need to please others and spent the next two hours mentally kicking my own arse for not saying no. However, when Ewan got home he asked me if we had any special plans for the afternoon. When I told him no and asked him why he needed to know he explained he had been given a school detention this afternoon for not doing his homework. Of course, I had to cancel his Abmachen. After I scolded him severely and grounded him for same, I heated him up some curry laksa and we sat at the kitchen table together, reading Harry Potter together between slurpy mouthfuls of noodley soup. It was my silent thank you to him for getting me out of my chore. He is never to know!

I wish you would tell me who your sexy dream was about. I've never dreamed of Harry Potter that way myself either but Cedric Diggory shocked me one night when I least expected it.

Totally Inappropriate Love and Barely Legal Kisses,

Stella
xxxxx

Bouncing Back!

Dearest Party Animal,

Jaysus! who let that whinging depressive into our blog? You haven't been sharing our access code with any escapees from your local looney-bin have you? You know how I warned you about not sharing your famous hospitality with every bedraggled, friendless, but mildly amusing, waif who crosses your path and tugs at your heartstrings. She must have had one gin & lemonade too many. They don't call it Mother's Ruin for nothing!

I had a fabulous Sunday: indulged in a long lie-in, went into a sugar trance after a Christmas baking frenzy with the kids; we also whipped up a simple peasant repast of duck breasts in orange sauce and black olives (with green beans and wild rice) for lunch, walked and jogged off the calories in the forest, and collapsed on t'sofa with a hot cup of tea and Harry Potter.

Early bed, luscious, dream-filled sleep (I was dreaming about someone sexy, and believe me Honey, it wasn't Harry Potter), and I am now ready to climb mountains and wrestle tigers again. Bring them on!

Hot Lovin' and Naughty Thoughts,

Antipo
xxxxxxxxxx
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Breakdown

She has felt it coming on over several days, she is seriously afraid that she’s losing it and that she won’t bounce back as usual because her body aches all over and the uncontrollable tears appear at the most inconvenient moments: upon walking to work; wrapping parcels for Christmas; she barely gets through a day of emotional overload: her friend losing a longed-for baby; hearing unexpected praise and encouragement from her son’s teachers; encountering her seriously ill neighbour in the street – he’s groaning and bent double with pain – she's panicking and not knowing what to do; she is kneecapped, gutted by grief and homesickness; deeply resenting the cold European winter; dreaming of - craving - a summer at home where the sun is surely glinting off the harbour right now; reading newspapers from home and listening to the CDs she bought from her favourite music shop on Lambton Quay; feeling her son’s paternal rejection more acutely than ever before; but she gets up every day and carries on, brave face, busy work schedule, hysterical laughter and emails with her best buddies, online flirting boosts her morale; she still feels sexy despite her lined face and dry skin shrivelling in the harsh north winds and the overheated buildings.

Her daughter wants cheese fondue for dinner, so they all three get busy in the kitchen, the grumpy one has gone out, so they laugh and play loud music; she shows her daughter how to cube the cheese, stir the sauce, her son makes a wonderful green salad and sets the table, they light many candles, they are laughing and eating and it tastes so good and looks so pretty, but it is spoiled by the early return of the unwanted presence bearing gifts for the girl and not for the boy; she wonders again how could she have got it so wrong? how could she – so capable and clever – how could she have chosen so badly and fucked things up? how could she be so lonely when she has so many friends? She wants to call Ms. Mac, but she will only sob incoherently on the phone and besides, Ms. Mac is entertaining dinner guests tonight. She hides her tears from the children, she cowers in the bathroom. She is tired of putting on the brave face; her talents are wasted on him; she is Doing Time, feeling trapped and desperate that things will not change soon enough even though she has great, grandiose plans for her future when the children are grown; she will be free to change careers and living arrangements – a vast palette of vibrant choices hovers tantalisingly on the horizon.

And she sits and writes some of it down, and she sobs as she types, but the children don’t see, they are entranced by Mr Bean on the telly (thank you Mr Bean), and she immediately feels calmer, reminding herself that things are always so much harder in the bitter winter, but in two months time the spring will return and bring brighter thoughts; that her vanity is foolish and self-indulgent; that cold water on the brave face performs miracles and soothes the red eyes; that she just has to grit her teeth and get on with it for now; she is grateful for all the good things, she truly is, and everything looks better in the morning and things will actually be even better in just a few short years. Oh, she has such plans! The plans are such a comfort. She has four years and five months to serve.

Texas Dreamin’

Dearest Ms. Mac,

I’m desperately trying to get out of my pjs and leave the house to get my final shopping done before the shops get too crazy.

But I’m having difficulty tearing myself away from the computer. Last night I dreamed I went to Austin, Texas to watch my favourite Kiwi performers The Flight of The Conchords (they played the South by Southwest music festival there last March). So this morning I had to watch it again on YouTube.

And now the Evil Vortex of YouTube has sucked me down into its sexy, dark, atmospheric depths. I’ll just watch this song one more time, and want to share its sultry goodness with you. You know, to make sure you start your day out right.

Not only is the song hilarious, but sexy too. I’m in somewhat of a state. To make matters worse, the bird cage is currently on my desk, and Gogo Snr, the male budgie is furiously shagging Little Becky, the only remaining female. Damned little feathered perverts!

So Bret and Jemaine can keep you company in my absence today.

Raunchy lurve and sleazy kisses,

Antipo
xxxxx
xxxxxxx




Bret: I just wanna do something special for all the Ladies in the World
Jemaine: Oh!
Bret: I just wanna do somethin' special
Jemaine: Oh yeeeessssss!
Bret: For all the Ladies in the world
Jemaine: Is that possible?
Bret: and the girr-rls, Don't forget them girls
Bret: I just wanna do somethin' special, for all the Ladies in the World
Jemaine: Is that physically possible?
Bret: All around the wo-o-r-ld

Jemaine: Caribbean
Bret: (Ladies)
Jemaine: Parisian
Bret: (Ladies)
Jemaine: Bolivian
Bret: (Ladies)
Jemaine: Namibian
Bret: (Ladies)
Jemaine: Eastern Indochinian
Bret: (Ladies)
Jemaine: Republic of Dominican
Bret: (Ladies)
Jemaine: Amphibian
Bret: (Ladies)
Jemaine: Australian
Bret: (Ladies)
Jemaine: Outta sight
Bret: Amazin' ladies
Jemaine: Late night
Bret: The hard workin' ladies
Jemaine: Erudite
Bret: The brainy ladies
Jemaine: Hermaphrodite
Bret: The lady-man-ladies

Jemaine: Oh you sexy hermaphrodite lady-man-ladies
With your sexy lady bits
And your sexy man bits too
Even you must be in to you ooo ooo

Bret + Jemaine: All the ladies in the world
I wanna get next to you
Show you some gratitude
By makin' love to you it's the least we can do...

Bret + Jemaine: If every soldier in the wo-orld
Put down his weapon and picked up a woman
What a peaceful world this world would be-eee...

Bret + Jemaine: Redheads not warheads
Blondes not bombs
We're talkin' about brunettes not fighter jets

Jemaine: Oooh Oooh it's got to be Sweet 16s not M-16s
When will the governments realize it's got to be funky sexy ladies?

Bret: I have a vision and all I can see
Is all of you with 'a all of me
In a world of peace and harmony
Where every lady gets a little piece of Bret-y

Jemaine: I've been to Paris, Wellington and Amsterdam
And a wham-bam, Merci, Danke, thank 'a you ma'm
I don't care if you're ugly or you're skanky or you're small
I just wanna do a little something special for ya all...

Bret + Jemaine: All the ladies, in the world, you deserve it, Girrrrrrl...

There’s a more polished version of it here, from their HBO tv show, but it’s more “lounge lizard”, and not quite as funky.

Dearest Clara Cantankerous,

Are you bouncing around yet? Or are you still scowling at Mrs Sniffy-No Tissues and her coterie of similarly crass colleagues? I find myself particularly energised this morning. I have been out on my morning constitutional. There was snow on the ground but the sun came out and showed off some beautifully blue sky in amongst the heavy clouds. I have plans to go down to the drying room (obviously my penance for something I did in a previous life) later this morning before the children come home for lunch. Then, in the afternoon I am entertaining a Christian for Coffee. You know how I love my Christians.

The latest blanket of snow in the Village of the Damned is melting which makes the place look very unkempt. I may have to get out there later on in the afternoon and breathe hot air very heavily over it all to melt it quicker. You know I like things tidy.

We have a scandal in the house involving a car parked in the visitor's parking spot without number plates and an anonymous note. It's all very exciting. I check the house notice board every time I go down into the cellar to kiss my neo-classic mercedes to see the latest round of angry German pinned up for all and sundry to see. Talk about air your dirty linen in public! My linen is always clean before I air it in public, or even in pubic, of course.

My internet is v e r y s l o w this morning so I have been slamming laptops shut and swearing very loudly. It's a very pleasant atmosphere round here, to be sure.

With much love on the day before your DAY OFF!

S
xxxxxxxxxxxx

Dearest Mistress of Soggy Bickies and Hot Tarts,

Am groggy and cantankerous after a bad night. But will soon be bouncy-bouncy again, knowing that tomorrow I'm off work and can go back to bed when the kids go to school.

Or schlep out to the shopping mall for a last onslaught at Christmas shopping before the crowds become impenetrable.

Please let it be bedtime very soon!

Will treat myself to a hot kebab sandwich with frites at lunchtime.

Need some virile, spicy heat inside me!!

Lurve and dozy kisses,
Antipo

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Dearest Jangly-Haired, Mrs. Ancient McHasBeen

No, upside down Chrissie trees have not yet made it to The Village of the Damned. But green Christmas decorations haven't either so I'm not unduly worried about it. Luckily, I have my old green baubles and sprakly stars from Australia to bring out the dark green plastic pine needles on my tree.

Did I ever tell you about the woman who demanded I take down my tree and do things the Swiss way? She told me I should pack away my tree and not bring it out until Christmas eve, the Swiss way, in case any of the local children ask me why the Christkindli has been to my house early. You see, the Swiss don't decorate their own trees and wait 12 days until Santa Claus brings them bags full of loot. Instead, a certain Herr Luther decreed that it should be a magical imp version of Jesus who pops into their front rooms and decorates the tree for them, lighting the real candles on the (hopefully) flame-retardant real pine needles and piling the pressies underneath the firey tree of wonder. Meanwhile the kids are locked in the cellar sit in the kitchen waiting for him to turn up with their pressies. Anyway, I promptly told the woman where to get off and I flaunt my tree blatantly every year, enjoying the scandal it must surely cause. Pahh! I wouldn't have minded if she'd been a Swiss but she was an Aussie. There's none so annoying as the sympathisers!

I know I've been a terrible pen-friend lately. It's all because of the visitors, of course. Our darling Aussie friends who we visited in Belgium brought their two little angels, a very cute baby girl of under two and a gorgeous little clone of his father who is nearly four, to stay for a weekend visit. We had a wonderful time. I confess, I took them to see our tree but I did make it very clear that to gaze upon the tree, they had to empty their minds of everything except adoring thoughts of the two of us. The Glühwein helped with that, of course. But anyway, who knew little children could be so exhausting? After I waved my dear friends off on Monday afternoon I fell into a exhausted stupor on the lounge and didn't move for nigh on 24 hours. When I finally came out of my coma I decided to do some baking. Hence, yesterday I baked a banana bread and right after I shut the oven door, I realised I hadn't put any butter in it. After I wrote you a particularly humourless email telling you of the events, I decided I would bake another batch of shortbread. As I pulled the dough out of the mixer, I knew there was something not quite right about the particularly wet mixture but couldn't put my finger on it. It wasn't until I had cut out the biscuits and put both trays in the oven that I had a flashback of the events leading up to the baking process. I had added 200g too little flour to my mixture! So, my famed shortbreads are nothing but very crumbly, very buttery biccies. I have named them boy biccies and pretended that they are a very special recipe I made up for my beloved children. Lesson for the day: don't bake when your eyes are falling out of your head from tiredness or your culinary genius could come under question.

I am so very pleased that your attendance at my sleeping academy was not a complete waste of time. I'm quite sure that I will look for some industrial strength ear plug to see you through such noisy nights in future. I was once given a pair of ear plugs as matter of course at a Foo Fighters concert and wondered what kind of wimp goes to see Foo Fighters and then blocks out the majesty of Dave Grohl's guitar godliness? I should see if I still have those that I could mail you for Christmas. Knowing you as I do though, I am quite surprised that the jangles from your hair do not cause you to have apoplexy every time you move your head. You know, from fright.

In other news, I have run out of tea bags. As you may or may not know, I import my tea bags from Scotland, a bulk import once per year every new year. This year I have managed to run out tea bags a full ten days before we head to Scotland for our annual family pilgrimage. I have two choices: a) buy a box of terrible Swiss teabags and taint my morning cuppas with a way inferior tea product thereby ruining my first cuppa of the day entirely for ten days or b) go without tea until I make it to Scotland. I think I'm going to have to go with an inferior product but every sip will taste of acid, I am sure. Please, think of me in these trying times.

Yours in terrible tea times,

Call me Jenny for tea is my life.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Christmas Curmudgeon

Dearest Ms. Mac, Light of My Life,

I had to come to work exceptionally early today, and the bleariness of my consciousness notwithstanding, it was really rather pleasant striding like a mini Valkyrie through the freezing fog down the main street of the village, which I had all to myself. Christmas lights in shop windows twinkled at me through the grey dampness, creating an ambiance very much befitting my True Fairy Princess status.

My abnormally good mood is due entirely to the fact that, after a week of insomnia, of forlornly trailing around the house at night with a mattress and sleeping bag, trying to find a comfortable (and quiet) sleeping spot as far as possible from the snoring, man-flu stricken Evil Hubster, the snuffling, twitching offspring, the clanking and overly hot radiators, the nocturnal squeaking of the hamster wheel and the indignant shuffling and muffled chirps of the canaries and budgies, I finally scored!

I made myself a cosy nest on the upstairs landing between the loo and my study, and proceeded to indulge in eight hours of delicious, dreamless sleep. You must be so proud of me! After all those costly appointments I have made at Ms. Mac's World Famous Institute of Slumber, your wisdom is finally rubbing off on me.

To add to my chirpiness, I'm wearing my new pinky-purpley dangly earrings (identical to the red ones I gave you last month but which have unaccountably not yet been boasted about on your little blog thingie), AND am wearing my hair in a chignon, wrapped in a hair scrunchy decorated with dangly beads, so the overall clinking-clanking-jingling effect as I walked along was most pleasing.

However, I do wish to register a small complaint.

Has the vulgar, modern trend of upside-down Christmas trees reached your tiny, conservative Village of the Damned? I swear it's the silliest look ever! I'm afraid I'm turning into a hopeless Old Git. I thought I could keep up the façade of being young in spirit, and totally groovy Baby, but damn! Christmas is supposed be a cosy, familiar affair, not one spiced with a dangerous thrill. Hmph.

Crusty old love and kisses,
Mrs. Ancient McHasBeen

Dear Bastarding La Poste,

I've always managed to find Antipo's place of work and I don't even live in France! I don't even have one of those SatNav ladies to tell me where to go either.

Honestly, I can't decide whether post offices the world over should be condemned or congratulated for their amazing skill in consistently filling their workplaces with employees who display the least amount of work ethic ever recorded in the history of mankind.

Your mottoes across the world should read, Your Post Office: putting the in back into competence all around the globe.

No love and kisses for you, you bunch of morons,

The Post Office Rageaholic

Homicidal PMT Crazies, Episode No. 5342

Dearest Truly Kind and Amenable Person Who Would Never Shout At Complete Strangers,

I lost my rag at the Bastarding La Poste today and vented all my migrainous, menstrual misery on them. You would have been so proud.

When I got my new PayPal account, after the infamous Donating Daughter Débâcle, I immediately ordered a metric tonne of Christmas presents for my (surprisingly) lucky offspring. I deliberately gave my work address so that the parcels would be delivered to the office where I am all day, and not to my home address, where I am not. Most of the parcels cost 6 euros for delivery.

Well guess what I received at the office today? Four, count ‘em, FOUR post office notices to say You weren’t there when the postman called, so you have to pick up your parcels from that shitty little office in your village, which is only open on days with a ‘z’ in them, where it’s too hot and claustrophobic, and there are always fifteen painfully slow and doddery or completely retarded people in the queue, and then when you finally get to the counter they tell you your parcels have been sent back to the Centre de Tri anyway, ya boo sucks!!!

So I immediately called and asked the Post Office Dragon Lady nicely to send the poor wee trainee postie back to our office tomorrow with the parcels, because I had paid 6 euros postage on each parcel and my colleagues were here all day yesterday and today, but the postie had unaccountably failed to physically enter our office to deliver the parcels.

Post Office Dragon Lady refused, said the postie had done her job and and it wasn’t her fault if our office is not easy to find! I disagreed and told her it’s clearly marked on the 6 foot tall plan at the entrance to the site.

Long story short… I got the boss’ car, picked up the parcels (and some work stuff, I hasten to add), shouted quite a lot and demanded the name and postal address of the manager so I can write and complain. (It happens frequently). The shouting provoked a violent fit of coughing, so I made sure to spray my germs all over their office. Of course, I am a True Fairy Princess and therefore have no germs, but they don't know that. I’m going to send them a photo of the site plan so they can stick it up their arse on the notice board in their staff room and throw darts at it. If they’re lucky, I’ll send them a photo of my bum as well.

Yours in Sisterly Bitchitude,
Missus. Grumpy McMenstrual Blackheart

Poor Little Bunny,

Would but I could lavish you with a hundred different types of soothing and healing touches! When you are in pain, so am I. My heart aches in rhythm with every raspy inhale and rattley exhale you manage.

Is that what you wanted to hear?

Or would you rather know that my hands now smell of soup?

Soup kitchen kisses and faith healer caresses,

Ms Mac
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Dearest Stridey Lotus Blossom,

Update on my extreme pain and suffering, in case you aren't feeling sorry enough for me yet.

Head hurty and cough has REgressed from foul bronchial to dry tickly, so that each explosion sets my cranial panels vibrating in a miserably painful staccato.

Am almost certainly at death's door and then my boss will be sorry he crossed me, if I cark it before 6 pm. Ha ha ha

Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

My kind, eldest offspring said, before leaving for school "I wanted to massage your neck, but I've already put my gloves on." At least the thought was there.

Painful quisses,

Missus Moany McWhingePants

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PS If I could drown myself in a vat of your wonderful soup, it go down in history as The Best Death Evah.

Dearest Madame Migraine,

Yes , I have been out striding in the mountains this morning, admiring the dulcet tones of cowbells and practising my yodelling. I am most firmly home now though with no other plans than to make the house presentable for our lovely Aussie-Belgians to visit tomorrow and to make a grand old soup for our dinner. Ham diced, veggies and some barley and golden lentils thrown in for fibre. Yumm, yumm. How I wish though that I had access to a lovely Ham Hock to boil the bejeezus out of before chucking in the veggies. Also, not a sign of a swede in this land of shitty fresh produce. Oh well, to console myself I have made a very posh sanga for lunch- Klosterschinken, pomodori and brie which you, being the cleverest woman on the face of the earth would possibly know as ham, cheese and tomato.

I shall let you know later just how delicious it was!

Love and quisses,

Miss Pretentious.

Dearest Double-Choc Tennille,

Are you doing your striding thing in the mountains today?

I am so sad and lonely without your cyberpresence...

Lurve & self pity,
The Captain

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Hurty-Head Thursday

Dearest Soggy-Shouldered (from my tears) Soulie,

Did you miss me? That damned migraine tracked me and hunted me down, then shot me to smithereens yesterday. I asked my offspring to email you for me, but haven't been near the home 'puter to check if they managed it successfully.

It was such a nasty one, that I haven't even the wits to describe the pain in a pleasantly humorous fashion. "Blah, blah, blah, am boring myself now", to quote a Very Famous Global Phenomenon.

So. Back at work, got new subscriptions coming out my jacksie, must get on and thank them grovellingly for making me very wealthy indeed!

Lurve and trembling grogginess,
Antipo

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Dearest Drug-Addled Muddy-Heeled Queen of Saggy Gussets,

Yes, yes, but were any of the workmen who ripped up the road good-looking? is what I want to know!

Perhaps you should consider a trip to the hosiery aisle of the local supermarket and grab yourself a new pair of tights (Get you and your pantyhose- oooooh, haven't we got tickets on ourself today?) Personally, I never wear saggy gussetted items of underwear- imagine the looks on the ambulance men's faces if you got knocked over on your way to work. You and your baggy underwear would be the talk of the hospital's Emergency Dept. If I can't have a nice snug gusset or two cradling my pink bits, I go entirely without. If I'm to be the talk of anywhere, it's going to be for something outrageously scandalous.

Nothing has happened here of note. Yesterday's baking extravaganza has produced some shortbread of an inferior crunch not quite up to my exacting shortbread standards. Certainly, it's not suitable to be placed in the lovely little tins and decorated bags I had planned to give to friends and (nice) neighbours as little Christmas treats. Therefore, today will be devoted to eating the entire batch of shortbread before anyone sees it. I foresee a tough job ahead of me, but really, somebody has to do it, non? And by the way, I refuse to answer your question about my decorative carrots atop my carrot cake upon the grounds that it may incriminate me.

Must be off, a cup of tea and the shortbread tin awaits!

With love,

Ms. Mac

Dearest Mother of the Year,

whose children are so handsome and bake such lovely cakes with you (by the way, did you make the decorative carrot on the carrot cake yourself? Or was it a pre-prepared, shop-bought, cheaty one?),

It's the drugs talking again. Antipo is groggy and uncommunicative this morning. She is also feeling irritated because, having got gussied up in a skirt and heels in honour of an American VIP potential client who is coming for a meeting this afternoon, she realises her pantyhose are very old and suffering elasticity loss. She has discovered there is nothing more annoying than a sagging gusset, even if nobody can see it. This is why she prefers jeans, socks and boots.

Also, some pig-headed and utterly selfish workmen have dug up the entire approach to her office, so she had to pick her way gingerly through mud and rubble in said heels this morning, and will need to spend some time in the ladies' removing mud from the pretty shoes.

Also, the colleagues apparently deemed the office too smelly or something, and she arrived (late) to work to find all windows and doors wide open, and a howling gale ripping through the building.

She sincerely hopes your day is getting off to a better start.

Love and Self-Pity kisses,
Toplexil Again

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P.S. She did however have a lovely dream about The Handsome Greek. We'll call him Zorba for now.

Dearest Walking Wonderwoman (and Global Blogging Phenomenon),

I'm imagining you striding about the Swiss mountains like a Valkyrie today. Are you enjoying atmospheric, swirling mists and wind too? Perhaps you have cunningly stashed a container of dry ice in your pockets, to enhance the operatic atmosphere, you know. I have had a second strong black coffee this morning, which seems to be dragging my brians from their druggy daze.

Do you remember that boasty comment I posted on your blog years ago, when you wanted to know which famous people your readers had met? Well I've just realised that I left one off my rather long list!

The Lovely Michelle in Welly reminded me this morning, when discussing the recent hysteria engendered by David Beckham's appearance in a charity match with his LA Galaxy team, that I had my pic taken with a certain famous British soccer star, J. Fashanu. It was way back in 1982 when I was captain of our school's First Eleven. He was visiting NZ and guest-coaching school teams.

The annoying thing is, I can't for the life of me remember whether he was the lovely Justin Fashanu, Britain's first ever million pound black footballer who later declared his homosexuality, became a victim of virulent homophobia in the UK, sank deeper into a series of sleazy scandals, bizarrely dated actress Julie Goodyear (Corrie's Bet Lynch) who "admitted to her lesbian past", and finally topped himself in a cold garage in London.

Or whether it was his younger brother John Fashanu, squeaky clean, who became a telly presenter in the UK, then moved to Africa to demonstrate tyres, and is now a television game show host in Nigeria.

All I can remember is that Mr Fashanu was extremely tall (like, a whole metre taller than me!), dark and handsome, and it was a great honour to be coached by him.

I will have to ask my parents to dig out my old autograph book and photo album in order to discover the truth about this perplexing mystery. Or else I won't be able to sleep at night...

Breast wishes,
Antipo
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Dearest Moanday Maven,

Antipo's not here today, this is the drugs talking.

She hacked her way through the night with the most bronchial, asthmatic death rattle you could ever wish to hear.

So she needs cawfee first, chat later.

Lurve & cough syrup kisses,
Toplexil

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Dearest TimTam Titillater,

Had I known yesterday about the hypothetical TimTam debate, then I would most certainly have come out of my self imposed exile to hypothetically chuck in my two cents.

Hypothetically, I would be able to choose between so many wonderful flavours of TimTam, although in actuality, the task would be far, far harder (that's what she said). Hypothetically, I would certainly discard the Poo flavoured ones and suggest that perhaps that particular flavour had been a bad hypothetical business decision on the part of Arnotts. Hypothetically, I would also discard the packet that has a suspicious tear in the packaging with some of the contents missing because you know, I like things tidy.

And so to the remaining hypothetical choice between Choc & Raspberry, Chewy Caramel and Double Chocolate. Well, call me Sophie because it's almost impossible. Chewy Caramel with its oh-so-delectable stripe of toffee-i-ness sandwiched down the middle of the two crunchy biscuits? Chocolate and Raspberry, surely after Moët et Chandon and Captain & Tennille, one of humanity's most inspired combinations? Or, double chocolate- traditional TimTam crunch'n'cream covered twice in my favourite food group?

Twice!

Hypothetically, dearest soulie, I would be out of my mind to not choose Double Chocolate wouldn't I? Of course, I'm not hypothetically excited by the prospect of a Christmas present at all now.

With Chocolate & Raspberry love and Chewy Caramel kisses,

Mrs Double Chocoholic

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