I'm not complaining, but...

After the joy, no - the thrills, no the sheer frigging hysteria of finding out I have a decent crack at a 'real' job once more (interview next Monday - stay tuned), things have returned to the mundane ordinary.

Jessica Simpson still refuses to respond to my marriage proposals. Don't know what her problem is. Like, what girl wouldn't be jumping at the chance at life in an occasionally dry hole with an almost-employable, broken down, wannabe writing hack?

Tony Abbott has come out and admitted what we all flipping knew - that you can't believe what he is gibbering about anyway. Including those promises not to wear Budgie Smugglers again. Good on ya, Dumbo.

After being invited to be a guest blogger at another site (was told to sod off over the paying blogging job, but fine and dandy about asking me to do freebie ones), I have submitted a magnus opus featuring an all-star cast including Muffy the Monster Molesterer, Star Trek, Harry Potter, Robinson Crusoe, Moby Dick, Speed and Dirty Harry, only to have a test reader say she didn't get it. Bloody women, can't live with 'em, can't chomp 'em up for dog food.

Strangely enough, Tyra Banks has joined Jessica in stubbornly ignoring my marriage proposals. I mean, like, come on, surely one of you can be conned, eventually, one day, maybe?

My pants are too frigging tight. My hair is too frigging grey. And I have a pimple on my hairy arse. And why is it that while the hair on your head starts disappearing, great frigging tufts of it start poking out everywhere else that you don't frigging want it? Like, was it really necessary to design a male human nose that after age 40 decides it simply must sprout things like jungle vines from the nostrils?

Not that I'm complaining or anything.