Shakin in my poots.

Oh dear me, how heartily amusing.

I ineptly managed to not-quite-center it, but don't worry, you're not missing anything. (High standards: I got 'em.)
(Edited to add: videos fixed - hurrah, etc. - with this clever chap's handy trick for easy video resizing. Thanks Kel!)

Holy sweet-smelling hilarity Batman, who would expect Dior to swallow this presumably very expensive lame Alfie Goes to Paris creation? Anyway, I assume that's where they were - I saw the Eiffel Tower, but then I had a brief choking fit and needed to leave for a moment to get a tissue and a glass of water. I expect at some stage Jude Law was powering down the Seine in a speedboat wielding a pistol in one hand and a bottle of Kronenbourg in the other.

(I'll bet as we speak Guy Ritchie is in talks to do the next James Bond film, entitled The Spy Who Sent Me Home in a Fucking Ambulance, starring Jude Law, with Danny Dyer as the villain.)

At least Mr Law gets to actually do some stuff. In her ad, poor Keira Knightly is required to rapidly flash a variety of facial expressions intended to concisely convey such diverse and complex emotions that it resembles a kind of facial voguing. Pensive, jolly, seductive, perky, stabby and goingsomewhereinahurry - they're all there.

All these faces are admittedly kind of similar, except for the one of extreme merriment excited by dabbing a little perfume on a man. And who wouldn't chortle at such a whimsical frolic? Someone made of stone, that's who.

Chanel have previous; I think they more or less invented this new oevre of perfume advertising where there are characters, conflicts, plots and subplots, an antihero, resolution and denouement lovingly teased out on the screen in, well, seconds. Just for fun, let's relive this one. All together now: "I'm a dahncer..."


I'm pretty sure this is just one more thing we can blame on Christmas.

You can blame this new post on Thanksgiving. Instead of chopping/baking/marinating/sautéeing/peeling/scrubbing/
cleaning/hoovering/shopping/burning myself,
I'm here, giving back to the people. I'm good that way.

I don't wish to offend...

...but I, like most of the rest of the world, believe all that Tea Party stuff to be nothing but transparent right-wing bollocks. And pardon me when I laugh my big fat heinie off when I hear how it is really a very moderate and centrist and "patriotic" "movement" and not at all just the foul-smelling dregs of the dark Bush years, which were themselves the foul-smelling dregs of the Reagan years, which were themselves a smear on the u-bend of history.

Oh, but (please!) do keep it coming. I love to hear about all the ways in which the President is like Hitler. I can't get enough.

(While listening to an item on the midterm elections on the Today programme this morning, I formulated an articulate and intelligent riposte to all the nonsense spewing from the stinking mouths of these morons, but then my head filled with their bile and exploded. Sorry.)

I still love you Obama! Call me.


**Edited to add - This post disappeared!! For a few minutes!! COINCIDENCE or NOT...? You decide. Or I managed to press the wrong button and cram it backwards into my saved drafts, but hey, just because I'm a liberal pinko doesn't mean I don't enjoy a conspiracy theory.

Early Monday morning, pre-caffeine.

Oh look, the lovely man did some washing, despite having such an early start this morning.
Poor him. Sweet.

Oh look, he has done only his own washing, about half a dozen items, completely ignoring the full basket of laundry upstairs.
Maybe from now on I will only cook my own food/run my own errands/change the sheets on my side of the bed, etc. Also, eco-huff at waste of water, electricity, etc.

Oh I see, it is pajamas.
He wanted to make sure he has all the jimjams he needs for his recovery from his surgical procedure tomorrow. Drat, I should already have had that on my list of semi-maternal nurturing stuff to do for an invalid. Must make him some healing soup. Poor him.

Oh look, it is all yellow. Like that Coldplay song.
Restitution, karma, etc. for only washing his own clothes. Also, what the hell? There appears to be nothing yellow in this laundry, specifically not even one of those dusters from hell which balls itself up to the size of a 5p coin, resisting all efforts to find and remove it from the washer, where you will next wash all your whites which will then all be yellow. 

All's well that ends well, and my clothes have lived to see another non-yellow day. Phew, I'm glad now that he ignored my stuff, which will now only be yellow where it is supposed to be.

Oh look, here are my two tops that I wanted to wear today but couldn't find. They are meant to be grey.

** Edited to add: upon rereading my second comment below (am commenting on own blog! must be stopped!), I feel I must point out that the lovely man is far more hardworking than I (I work hardest at avoiding achieving anything whereas he is ambitious, must get things done, mover and shaker, etc.) and I wouldn't like to give the impression that it was he who did the strategic incompetence trick. It was a friend of mine (you know who you are you dirty dog) who admitted he did that (red sock/white wash) so his wife would never again ask him to do the washing. **