Oh, darlings. *sad face*

[chaletian]

I bring you grave news from the Love Nest. Plan C, that summum bonum of our dieting plans, has suffered a dreadful blow. Giant rows, surely, the stuff of babes? I have had many. But there has been a setback. Viz, ridiculous level of hysteria in FT kitchen. I think it *may* have started when I claimed that demanding a plaster for my earlier plastic cut (damn you, creme fraiche lid, damn you!) would be Making A Fuss Over Nothing. Katie, for some reason, found this hilarious, almost as if I had been whinging about it all evening, which I can assure you is far from being the case. Then I claimed to be the very personification of stoicism, which was, apparently, taking things One Step Too Far. It gets confusing after that. There was some humour engendered by my attempt to use the handblender on a pot of rhubarb and apple almost-compote. Also the word "akimbo" (use of which caused me to actually bounce with excitement. Literal bouncing. None of your poxy, second-rate, cut-price metaphorical bouncing). Also the striking similarity in colour between the rhubarb compote and the washing up gloves. Also the ludicrous extent of our middle-class-ness as exemplified by our plastic fort of fake!tupperware.

Prior to this I had a vitamin pill and half a petit ecolier.

Afterwards, I made my lunch for tomorrow.

Just so you know.