Monthly Archives: March 2008

Patience is a Virtue

Those of you I actually talk to with an actual telephone, or actually see to actually talk to, will know that my STB Ex-Hubby has been ‘temporarily’ staying on my sofa while his flat purchase goes through.

This has presented so many problems (of the normally unimportant kind, but when you add them all together….grrr) but I think I have handled the situation with aplomb. Mostly. Well, he hasn’t tried to kill me while I sleep, and I’ve only screamed at him twice.

They say patience is a virtue but sod virtuous. Where’s the fun?

I want to thank everyone for your support during this irritating time. I really don’t know how I would have got through it, especially considering the ‘temporary’ stay has lasted EIGHT MONTHS so far. Thank you, thank you. You will all be invited to the ‘Thank F**k He’s Gone’ Party. As usual, clothes optional.


Me, Me, Me

I’ve got a rather ‘large’ birthday looming tomorrow but, despite this depressing aspect, I’ve had a fab time so far. I met different friends each day for birthday lunches and shopping last week, and had a lovely time in rainy Brighton this weekend – gay men heaven! To the extent that the hen parties we saw looked rather… limp.

I’ve had family over today and am rather squiffy after squaffing champagne. I’ve had a great time and feel very loved indeed. And I’ve got some fantastic prezzies too.

Happy Birthday to Me!


Me and Dorty fell victim to the age-old prank of ghost-knocking. The sort of prank that used to require the contents of my mum’s sewing box and rubber-soled shoes.

Picture the scene: all was peaceful in the Angel-a household. It was dark and the house was all cosy with the curtains shut. CSI on tv, a cup of tea to hand. Then came a knock at the door. And another. And another. Reluctantly, I paused Warrick getting his kit off and went to see who it was.

There was no-one there.

Then I spotted it. A length of cotton tied to the door-knocker. And I could just make out two indistinct blurs lurking on the green near the goalposts.

Dorty was outraged (it seems I’ve brought her up far too well). She grabbed the 5 million candle power spotlight torch and suddenly the young ruffians were illuminated, frozen like rabbits before headlights.

They scurried away to the sound of our laughter.

Ah, how the tables can turn.