Dear Pretty,

Thus far, you've been a sterling maid. Just a few questions please:

1)Why are my favourite jeans now pink?

2)What happened to Casserole Dish Number One of my trio casserole dish set?

3)You know my coasters? On the coffee table? Why do you stack them into a little pile?

4)WHY, sweet Jehovah, ARE MY FAVOURITE JEANS now a muted shade of prostitute pink? Do I look like I want to wear my blog template? Does it look like I want Barbie's wardrobe? Does it look like I wanted a freaking pink jean pant? Why couldn't you have colour experimented on, say, my duvet cover?

5)Well done on getting the red wine off the couch. It did look like, before you astutely attacked it with Preen, that a murder scene had taken place on this very piece of furniture. And the murder/merlot explosion wasn't clean - for the imaginative, a gruesome cold-blooded slaying. On my ever-suffering sofa. But this doesn't deviate from the fact that my jeans – my favourite jeans mind you – are Peas On Toast PINK. The frustration. The sheer frustration overwhelms and haunts me.

Forgive me, I have PMS. I'm an inert bomb, which is just waiting to be detonated by some stupid prick asshole in the traffic and/or a trolley-bashing 80-year old in Rosebank Pick 'n Pay....oh wait, that's already happened.

Thanks, security, for not arresting me for lewd conduct.

Was meant to go skiing in Lesotho this weekend, but due to unforeseen snow – no really – and a few other things, it's been postponed until later on. Crap.
Was looking forward to getting shitfaced in the snow with C and Big T. And, like, riding down the one slope.

But I will not panic. I will ride this out until my flippen period kicks in. And if anyone has anything to say about Aunt Rosie entering my building, so to speak, please do. I fucking dare you. I almost want you to.

PS: Who ate all the pies? I ate all the pies. Not everyone eats Caramello Bears on PMS. Now bugger off.

PPS: Still very happy and floaty, and astoundingly ditzy and skippy longstockings and pathetic and excitedly distracted, in between the temper tantrums. There's light at the end of this uterus.