Number 8 - In Which We Decide To Move House.

We live in one of those houses that is about two years old, was thrown up in a week and was then sold for more than the GDP. One of those houses that has top of the range light fittings and switches, but shoddy wiring. Three toilets costing £1000 each (yep) but plumbing that could have been done by a toddler. And very possibly was.

So when it rained indoors last year (a result of the fancy bath being attached to the outflow pipe by fairy tears and nothing else and subsequently dumping an entire bath full of water through the floor), we decided we needed to move to a house that was built properly. I would rather pay an extortionate amount per calendar month for a house that won't fall down round my ears when it's windy, as I suspect this one will very soon.

I won't miss the view of the park. I am a bit tired of seeing FiFi the Pitbull being walked by its owner who thinks it's OK to leave FiFi's shit for someone else to stand in. Our parochial little backwater may be frightfully middle class, but as it turns out, it's these middle classers that are the laziest at picking up after their pooches but are the first to write to the local paper complaining about other dogs' messes. 

Small town dramas. I shouldn't complain really. The biggest drama we've had round here recently is that someone's bike was stolen from their front garden. Headline news that. For two weeks.

Number 7 - In Which Twitter Mocks The Mighty.

I'm back on my feet again after being struck down by a fearful curse. (Pleurisy, bleurgh.) Things at work are changing, and I'm supposed to be working right now in fact, but I am not. I am procrastinating by writing this, wasting far too much time on Twitter and howling with laughter at Buzzfeed.

Three words: Poor George Osborne. You have to feel sorry for the weak-willed little wanker. He goes and tries to get all down with today's society, joins Twitter then gets publicly ridiculed and lambasted. I wonder how long he'll last?

In other news, I saw my first lamb of the year today. Super cute. And I also go emailed this delightful picture which reminded me not to complain about being cold:

I'm colder than you, so stop complaining. 

Number 6 - In Which The Night Is Dark And Full Of Terrors.

Being laid up with the lurgy has meant that I have had time to catch up on being a lazy slob. I have spent this time wisely and am watching Seasons 1 & 2 of Game of Thrones FOR THE FIRST TIME.

I am as astounded as you. How can I not have seen this before now? Why did nobody tell me that there existed a programme where people shagged and got beheaded all within minutes of each other? There are tits. And arses. And willies. This appeals to the raging voyeur in me. I might not like getting naked myself, and find sex with Him a disappointing chore, but I'll happily watch others go at it until their bits fall off. Or get chopped off. Whichever comes first.

Must go. There's more tits coming up. But for now, enjoy this delightful parody:

Number 5 - In Which Spring Springs But My Lungs Collapse.

I have Pleurisy.

I may die due to not being able to breathe.

OK, I won't because I am on super antibiotics and strong painkillers but I sound like I have emphysema. I know this because I was standing in the queue of the Post Office yesterday and the old dear in front of me turned around and looked startled and then said, "Oh, I'm sorry dear, I thought you were my husband. You sound like him. He has emphysema."

Which was nice.

So, despite Spring, and therefore sunshine approaching, I'm in bed feeling sorry for myself. Though I am about to watch Pretty in Pink on On Demand. So it's not all mucus.

Number 4 - In Which The Sex Is Terrible.

We don't have sex that much.

That is not to say that neither of us wants it, it's just not necessarily something we want with each other.

Which is possibly not wholly true. I reckon he may want to have sex with me, but I would rather read a book or go to bed at 9pm and get a good 10 hour's sleep in.

It's dwindled, that whole sex thing. For a while I thought my sex drive had waned, but then upon closer examination (and a careful calculation of how many special batteries are used in this household) it turns out, I still have urges. Lots of them. But not to have sex with him.

I attempted to kick start this by buying a Sexy Fun Times deal via Groupon or Wowcher. One of them, I can't remember which. It comprised of a little vibrator for the lady, a buzzing cock ring for the gentleman, a blindfold and a sexy game for the lucky couple to play.

Well, the package arrived yesterday (in a discreet Jiffy, which is always a relief. I hate getting Sexy Fun Stuff which has an embarrassing franking on the front) and I opened the pack and delighted with the hoard. The buzzy cock thing buzzed and the sexy game looked sort of fun. But my vibrator was battery-less. I hate that. There is nothing as disappointing about getting out one's vibrator to find the batteries dead or missing. And to be really awkward, this bloody thing didn't use AAAs (which I'd assumed and bought 10 of). No. It used "N" batteries. Do you have any idea how hard it is to buy "N" batteries in our parochial little backwater?! I'll put you out of your misery. It is impossible. They are ostensibly for cameras and burglar alarms, so imagine the consternation on the sales assistant's face in Homebase when I asked for some, got told they didn't stock them, and then *may* have had a little strop.

In hindsight it might have been new-toy sexual frustration.

So, armed with a vibe that didn't vibe, I suggested for Valentine's Day that we had sex the normal, toy-less way. (He'd already turned his nose up at the buzzy cock ring.)

It was terrible. (I suspect this may need some quantifying.)

He drinks a fair bit. He states categorically that he is NOT an alcoholic, and I'd be inclined to reluctantly agree, given that he's not drinking four 2 litre bottles of Strongbow at breakfast, buoyed up throughout the day with more cider then some beer, wine and Vodka for dinner. But every single night he HAS to have a drink. Normally about three bottles of 7% cider, followed by five or six cans of ale. Sometimes he switches it up and has two bottles of wine. Sometimes, half a bottle of whisky. But whatever the night, alcohol will be present. I'd say he drinks between fifteen and twenty units a night. So, while not an alcoholic officially, there is a worrying dependence there. And despite what I do or say, it continues.

I've read that people with alcohol problems may struggle to get it up. Erections are not known for their longevity with your heavy drinkers. And in his case, this is sadly true. We can go about five or ten minutes before he gets the flop, and then sometimes it will come back, sometimes it won't. Yesterday was one of those times. I'm primed and ready; my tits look fabulous, my hair is clean and my skin is spot-free. My lady-garden is immaculate (the only garden I own that gets such attention - the ones attached to my actual house are actually a disaster) and I had taken the trouble to crack open a new bottle of sex lube as you just never know where the night may take you when it's been a while.

And so, let us begin the dance. Snog. Snog. Fingers begin to roam. Snog. Hands are in position. Commence mutual organ exploration... Several minutes later comes the actual penetration. It's a bit fumbly (it usually is) and away we go.

Aaaand flop.

It's at this point where I sense the softness and acknowledge his silence so see it as my womanly duty to slide on down there to see if I can be of assistance. Often I can be down here for a good half hour. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it's a case of "Hop on quick before it changes its mind!" Sometimes I hop on and it does change its mind. This was one of those times.

Move away guys, nothin' to see here.

As I rolled off, he kindly pointed out that as we hadn't done it for a while, his deflation and lack of orgasm on both our parts was my fault. Why? Because we hadn't had sex for a while (as I haven't wanted it). And because of this draught, his penis has FORGOTTEN HOW TO HAVE SEX.

The batteries came the next day, courtesy of expedited shipping from Amazon. One of us had an orgasm this week.

Number 3 - In Which Familiar Is As Familiar Does.

Is it true that familiarity breeds contempt? I wonder this as I sit across from Him*, surreptitiously watching as his finger goes so far up his nostril, I'm fairly sure it's reached eyeball. He's a nose-picker. He also leaves clothes on the floor where he undresses, leaves everything he's used to make a meal out on the side in the kitchen, and leaves food wrappers strewn all over the house like he's a grimy student. Things I knew in the beginning but chose to overlook as "true love" worked its magic. Or, both being in our thirties, we settled.

I wonder what about me fills Him with contempt? I leave the door open when I pee (but not when I poop, I'm not that gross). I am oblivious to dust. I also have a propensity to be haughtily superior (for superior, read smug) with tests of intelligence such as University Challenge, Only Connect and Mastermind. I am also very good with tech; gadgets, computers, car engines etc. I can't help it if I'm clever. But I shan't apologise for it either. But I probably shouldn't be such a show off about getting the Connecting Walls right on Only Connect.

So I wonder: is there a point after we've been with someone for so long, that the little things they do make us want to hurl a car at them? I remember reading an article about the superhuman things people do when flooded with adrenaline; one woman lifted a car off her child after an accident or something. And I'm fairly sure that a hefty surge of adrenaline flows through me now as I watch him take out his finger, examine the end and then jam it up for another go. And the car on the drive is not that heavy. I could probably lift it. At least I could have before my slip the other day knackered my back so that every time I move I grunt like a pig, or groan like a pensioner.













*Him refers to The Man With Whom I Live. Not God. I'm not all that down with the G Man. Still not quite convinced he's real. A bit like Santa.

Number 2 - In Which People See My Knickers.

I enjoy snow. It has an equalising, purifying quality about it. I enjoy the fact that I can go upstairs to bed, close my curtains (whilst catching a glimpse of next door's garden in all its organised perfection, compared to my patchy grass and higgledy piggledy bushes), and wake up to a thick blanket of white stuff that makes all the gardens in the area identical. And then, for about a day, I can feel a bit smug that my garden looks just as wonderful for once, and I didn't have to do anything.

I also enjoy being the first to trudge in the snow. I feel like an intrepid arctic explorer, carving a path to places unknown with my Hunter wellies, despite them being a tad tight on my calves due to the annual Christmas-Pigout. But, like all explorers, I expect a bit of discomfort as I encounter strange new worlds. I'm fairly sure Ranulph Fiennes didn't complain about his fingers dropping off, so I shall not moan that my wellies are causing friction burn which looks a bit like horizontal hickies across the back of my calves.

I went to the City today to assess several canteens and restaurants to make sure they are complying... snore.... zzzzzz. God, sometimes this day job bores the tits off me. Anyway, it was ostensibly for my job, but really it was just to have a float around the Sales and see if there was anything pretty worth buying with what's left of my Christmas money (most of it having been spent on post-Christmas grocery shopping). I was contemplating popping into John Lewis when my Hunter wellies snagged on something on the pavement (probably ice, but who knows) and sent me arse over tit onto the ground. There was an horrendous ripping sound and as sure as ice is ice, the arse of my trousers ripped and as I stood up the creepy busker outside M&S, along with most of the rest of the City Centre, caught an eyeful of my knickers. Righto. Laughing off calls of "Eeh, are you all right?" with a breezy it-happens-all-the-time-I-am-a-professional "Oh, I'm jolly super, thank you!" I hot-footed it into the sanctuary of John Lewis, took my coat off, tied it around my wait and dashed up to Ladieswear, whereupon I grabbed the first pair of trousers that I thought I could squeeze my shamed arse and hickied calves into. Into the fitting rooms I dashed, and when satisfied that they sort of fit, they were purchased and worn all the way home on a very long, tedious and cold bus journey.

I haven't worn them since. Nor have I worn the traitorous Hunters.