Midnight hour seX factor

Oh, those murky hours between midnight and dawn... Sleepy hours... dreamy hours... working hours, for some unlucky sods...

Sometimes sexy hours, too... As I was hoping last night. I had just left the X Factor rehearsals and was making myself comfortable at the back of Simon Cowell's limo, sipping Krug and smacking my lips appropriately, when I was nudged. Quite unceremoniously. It was more like a shove, actually.

The limo's door opened, I was shoved again (quite unceremoniously), and my big bum made a loud splat on meeting the pavement. Tut, tut, not what you want at 1am but helps you wake up.

Max's face was looming over me and as I was still in a sexy mood... but then I remembered...

The midnight hour is download hour - until dawn we get our downloads for free. And it was my turn to get up.

So much for Mr Cowell. Maybe just as well. I only sing when I'm shaving - not sure he'd appreciate my hairy legs... As for my singing - let's just say my legs are much more impressive (in terms of hairiness, that is).

When life tastes of brown...

How to save the pennies when on holiday in Africa? Easy...

Firstly, it rained so no money spent on beach parasols and sun loungers.

Secondly, got food poisoning so saved on food, and water was cheap as chips. The little I could manage tasted of brown (yes, that's right, the supposedly chocolate ice-cream tasted just as I said - of brown) or, in the case of local biscuits, it was like licking the shelf in the spice cupboard. Trying to eat the local meat was like chewing on wee-stained old man's slippers that had been shuffling around for ten years or so.

Thirdly, bought no souvenirs 'cause couldn't cope with being hassled at the souks.

All in, a financial success.

Oh, nearly forgot. The bastard sat next to me on the flight back gave me the flu.

Suppose I'm still in a shitty mood over this...

Two dozen of my favourite things... not

What can one do with two dozen of eggs, close to their sell-by date? Husband couldn't help himself whilst browsing the "offers" shelf... apparently they were talking to him, winking at him very seductively indeed... I do sometimes wonder if his brain's scrambled...

Considering we eat, oh, I don't know, two eggs each a week, I make it a six-week supply... Only they won't last that long, not without giving us the squirts (or worse!) in the process.

Max says I could make home made pasta. The hell I could, like I have nothing better to do. Tried that once and never again. The end result looked like tapeworm and was just as slimey (I can only imagine them tapeworms are slimey, never had the pleasure of meeting one...)

It's quiche today, quiche tomorrow, I guess.

Oh, yes, I've solved the "chicken or egg" question (ok, ok, I stole that one off somewhere else but never you mind)... The chicken and an egg are laying in bed together, the chicken all happy, the egg annoyed. The egg turns to the chicken and says "Well, I guess we solved THAT riddle."
Funny it ain't but puts it to bed, doesn't it?

Wanna stroke my ferret!

We've stopped buying the weekly TV guide - a grand saving of 47 pence per week (£24.44 a year)!

Instead, Max collects a weekly "Homes & something" freebie from the estate agents round the corner, which has got TV pages at the back...

So, what I'm being deprived of is a weekly dose of "My ferret helped me through sex change" and similar stories that regularly appear in what used to be "our" TV rag. Balmy treatment for the tired mind, after a hard day's work...

What I get in return is pages and pages of properties for sale I'll never be able to afford... Not so balmy for the tired mind...

Might have to resort to shoplifting next. It's either that, or I get my ferret back..

It’s only a Fiverr

Another day in front of my best friend, Herr Laptop...

Do you want to know how to wriggle out of paying a parking fine? My editor thinks you do so I'm writing away... The deadline's tomorrow, still another 1,500 words to go... Money's good, I know the subject well (ok, so I'm sad) but the creative juices are not flowing...

So I found this site to amuse myself with, in the spirit of all things thrifty... just google Fiverr and you can forget about work for the rest of the day...

On Fiverr people advertise their services to do all things imaginable for only (you've guessed it) a fiver... they can be your friend of Facebook (but only for two weeks), break up with your partner (via a medium of your choice), or make an uncomfortable phone call on your behalf (this one could come useful if I carry on like that - someone to ring my editor to explain why I've missed the deadline...)

Or, check these out:

• I'll talk with you about Harry Potter for an hour (saddo...)
• I'll say your name in my everyday prayer (now, how do I know they've kept to their side of the deal?)
• I'll be your invisible friend for a week (as in: You can talk to me all you want. Although I may not answer, you can be confident that I'm there.)
  

And, at last, a voice of reason: I'll be very happy to accept your money and do absolutely nothing in return.

Did I mention that out of every $5 you pay, $1 goes to the brain behind Fiverr? Nice little gig, if one can get it. Please nod your head, I won't charge for that.

But I had to try it out, so I've settled for "a ball of spiritual energy"... Hang on, just arrived, got to get back to work...

Got your own hips?

Age is no laughing matter. Since I reached the grand old age of 20 (ok, it was a few years ago), the aches and pains have intensified and it's time I did something about it. So I signed up for pilates. To strengthen those core muscles, as they say. Including the pelvic floor so I don't pee myself when I'm really old.

Off I went to the first class, only to do a double take in the doorway. I was by far the only spring chicken there. Let me just say the teacher's first question was: "Ladies, I have to ask, have you all got your own hips?". You're kidding, I thought, but she winked at me so that's ok. I know I have a wrinkle or two but it's really not that bad... not yet anyway...

But why am I writing about this? Simple: they're using these squashy things called "blocks" while working on their pelvis (pelvises? pelvisis? oh, bugger off). You sort of put this thing between your knees and squeeeze! I'm saying "they", because I'm using a folded towel instead. Max wouldn't let me spend £8 on the proper stuff. I know it's only a bit of foam but why, oh why, do I have to be the odd one out in all respects??

Three a penny

Is Max a rare specimen or are there other blokes like him out there? It's been bugging me for a while...

Let me see... I suppose there's Tim, Max's brother. Came for dinner the other day, his bike helmet under one armpit, a bottle of rose under the other. I'm very partial to the pink stuff (you name it and if it's pink, I've probably drunk it) but it must be chilled and it must be good. None of that Zinfandel rubbish. Wiping Tim's sweat off it on the way to the fridge, I eyed the dodgy label suspiciously... But, to my surprise, it was actually rather nice. Tim, very chuffed with himself, said he got it at his local offie, for the grand price of £2.99. Can you even get a bottle for less than three quid?? Apparently, Tim can.

Or Dan, Max's best friend. Loaded but always used to smoke MY cigarettes. Cured that, though, when I proffered him a rollie once (bought if off the local bum especially for the occasion). Spitting and sputtering, Dan popped out to get a packet of Marlboro Lights quicker than I could say "Gotcha!" Never pinched my fags again.

Finally, take George, a business bod and an IT whiz-kid with IQ off the Mensa scale (so, again, not short of a few pennies...) George has canned soup for dinner three times a week, of the 39p per can variety. Out of choice. He's got a wife. Wife doesn't work. Wife can cook.

I could go on - they are three a penny all around me. Rather comforting, that is.