You have got to love a sunny Friday. Except Me Woog has taken the day off and will bug me, no doubt, for some daytime rumpy pumpy, so I am writing early then clearing out for the day. He plans these campaigns in advance, commencing with the most beautiful bunch of flowers presented to me on his arrival after work last night. But his arrival coincided with my mum treading on Harry's skateboard on the front veranda, almost rendering herself unconscious. She went down hard and took the gloss off the gesture.

Yesterday I took the little diva out for a shape and polish. Then out to lunch. Then by the end of the day, he had asked me so many questions my ears started to bleed.

And yesterday I found out that Mr Woog's dad, the formidable Dr Woog, was about to embark on an end of life crisis and get his motorbike licence so he and Mr Woog can become the dorkiest bikers on the planet. Bandidos? I think not.

This weekend sees the Woogettes off to Nanna's and Mr Woog and myself off to a 70's Red Carpet 40th Birthday party. So I would like to apologise in advance to our hosts for my undoubtedly debaucherous behaviour. You see I do not get out often and have to make the most of it - and the free champagne. And any excuse to wear a kaftan.


I have a friend called Wanderlust. She is a writer of epic hilariousness. She is a merkin (American) and we are trying to find sponsorship so we can worship her not from afar at the upcoming Aussie Blogger Conference. So if you have an aunt whose neighbour's adopted son once slept with a Qantas hostie, can you please email me at mrswoog@hotmail.com so I can start harassing for a free plane ticket. Or Mr Branson, if you are reading this, call me during business hours.