Happy February!

Dearest Curly Girl and Blogger About Town,

How I missed your adulation yesterday! I do get anxious and needy, you know, when you fail to acknowledge my existence every ten minutes or so. But I know you also Have A Life, and this is a bitter truth I must accept. It is so good to be back in your favour! We are getting all cosy, like an old married couple, aren't we? (I don't know where The Lovely Mr. Mac fits in to our relationship though!) I know that you sometimes have your wee moodie moods, and I must simply indulge them.

Cracking open the champagne is a good idea. I shall do it and loudly proclaim "Because Stella said I could!"

Darls, I won't be buggering orf to NZ until mid-July, so perhaps we can fit each other in (snigger!) before The Big Trip?

I wish you every joy with Dr Lovely Arms this afternoon, and trust you will make the most of all potential sexual and molestation opportunities. Just be sure to tell me all about it!

In Gloomy News, I have to tell you that my bloody Yahoo email has been playing silly buggers for over a week now and it's driving me Norah Batty. I am receiving emails (mostly querulous ones complaining of my silence), but it's extremely difficult to reply to them. And the address book function seems to be completely fucked. I haven't had time to sort it out, what with my hair cut and colour being so urgently needed. Then posing for glamour shots. Oh, and the children required nourishment most nights too.

I completely understand the thrill of being recognised, and the sensuous stroking of one's ego. I well remember the frisson The Lovely Sam de Bretagne gave me when she said "OMG Antipo! You're so famous!", to which I snorted 'That's a big fat lie!' But as you know, big fat lies are my bread and butter, aren't they?

From the Tragic News Desk, this just in: I recently ordered tix to take my son to the Stade de France for the France vs. Angleterre rugby match in three weeks time. I was nobly spending vast wads of cash purely for my offspring's benefit. Afterwards it struck me - My God! My best and biggest boyfriend Seb Chabal will surely be playing! I will get to see him in the flesh! I might faint from the excitement! (He might faint from the excitement!) But I have just learned that the bastarding new French rugby coach has not selected my darling Seb to play in the match. Woe is me indeed.

Let us now turn to the Weather Desk: a tropical rainstorm is absolutely thrumming down onto our flat corrugated roof with unmitigated violence, and the temperature has shot up to 8 whole degrees C! I feel I should be sitting on a verandah in a strappy sundress, drinking Singapore Slings, being fanned by a coolie and smouldering sultrily. Not chained to my formica desk, feeling the monsoonal vibrations reverberating frustratingly through every cell and corpuscle of my being.

In Fantasy News today, I am daydreaming of an illicit hotel encounter with a very large and virile, shaven-headed Adonis who throws me against the wall and enjoys being bitten, scratched and even kicked. That should keep me going until lunchtime.

Pervy Love and Juicy Kisses,

Antipo

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