Junk. And Matthew Ridge.

Goodness! What a terrible mood everyone seems to be in – including myself. I got a telling off by a shop-assistant for not picking an item up earlier (bloody hell! It was paid for!), and I swore at my beauty therapist (the choice of words may not have been the best, but the sentiment was deserved), and Auckland drivers seem to be giving their horns a real work-out today. Is it a full moon?

Saw Naughty Norrie on Ponsonby Road armed with his camera, not that anyone of any interest was around, but photos of a strategically-placed Matthew Ridge at SPQR with a sour-faced blonde may be in the Sunday paper, I suppose.

Mrs L has picked up some terrible habits lately, one of which is thinking she is an American rapper.

"I really need to get on the treadmill more," she sighed, "I have far too much junk in my trunk."
I snorted convulsively.
"Junk in your trunk! Ha ha! What have you been smoking?"
She looked defensive.
"You may not keep up to date with these things, Mrs Smith, but I do. Bet you don't even know who Fergie is."
“What, the Duchess of… whatever. The dumpy redhead?” (I knew who she meant. I just felt like being annoying).
She rolled her eyes. "The singer with the Black-Eyed Susans."
I tittered, but she continued, unfazed.
"Anyway, you used 'fo'shizzle' for ages, Mrs Smith, no matter how irritating it became, which was almost immediately."
Well! "That’s hardly the same," I said, "I was being ironic."

We sighed heavily in unison. It was, without doubt, the silliest conversation any two human beings have ever engaged in, which is saying something, coming from me, but I was annoyed and my face was stamped with a scowl for at least another hour (Note to Self: Must ask surgeon about Botox).

AND it has started to rain, so all in all, not a good start to the weekend.