OH: I’ve just looked through every page of your Grazia magazine.

Me: Mmm?

OH: I think there are two and half truly beautiful women in there.

Me: Two and a half? You mean ‘half a beautiful woman’ or ‘half beautiful’?

OH: Uh … undecided. All the rest are ..

*Long pause during which many facial contortions are observed*

… scrawny. Or not very bright looking.

Me: Interesting. I shall have to go and look through it and see if I can spot which two and a half you mean.

OH: Oh, I think you will, knowing me.

*Pause*

OH: You might not spot the half, though.

Now, me, I’d have thought spotting half a woman would have been easy.

I came downstairs this morning, bleary-eyed, as usual. Sat down in the lounge with my laptop, happily tapping away at emails and PMs and suchlike … and I happened to glance up and see that mirror in the picture up there. Now, I’m not a great housewife, I admit that, and since our cleaner left to take a full-time job things have got a little dustier around here. But that upwardly-mobile graph line on the mirror? That wasn’t there yesterday, honestly!

I gazed at it for a while, trying to work out what it was. At first I thought maybe I wasn’t awake enough to recognise it for what it was, and waited for my brain to process the information and come up with something run-of-the-mill which my sleep-sodden self hadn’t quite got yet, but the longer I sat here, the more I realised that I had no idea what the heck it was!

A snail-trail, that was my first thought, although what any self-respecting snail would be doing on my mantlepiece I had no idea, and there didn’t appear to be any slime. That snail would have had to cross the conservatory, and the lounge, and make a death-defying leap up to the corner of the mirror, there to wander aimlessly up to the top of the Galileo thermometer and then disappear into thin air. Nah. Unlikely.

So I got to my feet and wandered over and peered at the little dotted line and my jaw dropped somewhat. It was a line of eggs!

So. Definitely not a snail then, because the eggs are not big enough, or shiny enough and anyway, snails bury them in the earth. Not a spider, because their eggs come in neat little cocoons glued with Araldite-like efficiency to crevices and mouldings.

I thought. And the solution I came up with was the only one that seemed remotely likely. See what you think.

One of the many moths that flutter in of an evening when the windows are open and the lights are on had got caught short. I could imagine it fluttering around the lounge searching for a suitable plant to lay its eggs on, and Not Finding Anything because I don’t think they do orchids or prayer plants. The poor little thing must’ve got weaker and weaker and more and more tired and finally thought ‘Fuck it, I’ll just drop them here and they can take their chance!’

To support my theory, I cite two pieces of evidence.

1) Moths have various ways of distributing their eggs - in clusters, rings, lines or even (bizarrely) dropped from the air while on the wing.

2) There was a large moth hanging disconsolately from one of my curtains - a Common Rustic, I think. Or it might be a Cabbage Moth. Either way, she looked pissed, but did agree to pose for a photo.

So here’s the question, what should I do now? Should I leave the eggs there and see what hatches? Should I carefully remove them and put them in some rough grass - that being what Common Rustic caterpillars like to eat? Or a mix of brassicas and grasses in case it’s a Cabbage Moth? Or should I just vacuum them up and get rid of them? Common Rustics and Cabbage Moths both being, well, common.

Other, more creative, suggestions are welcome, but will not necessarily be acted upon.

Remember Crotchety Old Man’s post about ‘Questions from the ladies’? Remember my answer to it? Remember how Yellow Swordfish took exception to something I said (can’t think why) and came along making pithy comments?

Yesterday started out well. I got up early, took the dogs out, dressed the Princess in her finery and took her to her therapy appointment, and drove happily back for lunch. I was looking forward to the afternoon, because we had another riding lesson booked at the Western stable, and I do so love riding Western style.

I’m trying to eat healthy food. I gained a bit of weight on holiday, and I’m desperately trying to lose it again - without a huge amount of success, I have to say. So, I prepared myself a bowl of fresh fruit, followed by a bowl of soup, and I sat down and tucked in. Fresh pineapple! Mmm! Fresh strawberries and blackberries! Mmm! The pineapple made my throat tingle a bit, but hey, it was a little sore yesterday and pineapple is acid, so I didn’t worry too much about that. Soup next. Three bean and lentil! Mmm ….

But wait! What is this unsettled, churning feeling in my stomach? Hmm. Maybe I didn’t need all that soup. I stopped eating, took my dishes out to the kitchen and called out to OH that I was going upstairs to change ready for riding.

Next thing I know I have my head down the loo* and I’m throwing up for England.

I thought I was going to die. I had visions of myself on a gurney, being wheeled through A&E** on the way to get drips inserted to rehydrate me only to discover that I had botulism and it was All Futile.

OH appeared, alerted by the groaning and swearing, probably. He offered to call a doctor or an ambulance - that’s how bad I was, and he is a Jolly Nice Chap, as I keep telling you. I said ‘Just bring me a bucket, I need to lie down’. And that’s where I stayed for the next hour or so, face down on the bed, with my head in the bucket (a change of view is always nice), alternately sipping water and throwing it up again.

Eventually it stopped, of course, as these things do, and I realised that I probably wasn’t going to die. Not this time, anyway. Eventually, when I stood up, nothing much happened except a slight dizziness, and I was able to change into nightwear and drift off to sleep.

Other Half was a trooper, he really was. He rang to cancel the lesson, he brought me water and a cold, wet flannel*** without being asked, he left me to sleep and even emptied and rinsed out the bucket.

When I staggered downstairs, he made me a cup of tea, and kept checking to make sure I was OK and didn’t need anything. He even offered to go to the shop at 8pm to fetch me anything I might fancy. Luckily, we already had all I needed: Heinz Cream of Tomato soup and bread for toast. Not, I hasten to add, the travesty that passes for tomato soup in America - that would Not have been Good. The stuff tastes like ketchup! No, Heinz Cream of Tomato with toast is the thing to eat after throwing up, and there’s science to back me up, too. It’s full of salts, the main one you need being potassium. It tastes good and it makes you feel better .. as long as you don’t overdo it.

And so it was that as I sat feebly huddled in my chair, OH brought me a large dinner plate on which reposed a perfectly heated bowl of Heinz’s best, and four perfectly toasted triangles of hot toast. I wish I’d taken a picture, it looked so pretty! He even provided me with a piece of kitchen paper to use as a napkin!

So I just want to say that despite my occasional digs and smart comments about men in general, and mine in particular, I do have one of the best. Please give the man a round of applause. For those of you who have men who need a little help in becoming more like him, I’m sure he’ll be willing to provide online lessons (for a fee). You can find him over at Yellowswordfish. Tee hee. That should put his traffic up a bit.

Why do I blame the pineapple you ask? Because I ate some of the strawberries, the blackberries and the soup yesterday with no ill effects. Methinks a trip to the Public Health inspector might be in order. Someone should Suffer for This.

Oh, and by the way, can anyone explain to me how the hell I came to gain two pounds yesterday? Sheesh …

* English slang for toilet

** English for ER

*** English for washcloth

Anyone who knows me at all well knows how much I hate shopping for things*.

I don’t mean the weekly groceries, although that can be tiresome in the extreme, especially if the place is full of children and their harrassed parents, or women standing gossiping right in the middle of the aisle, or teenagers choosing their alcopops, or just, you know .. people.

No, top of the list of things I hate shopping for would be mobile phones, and close behind comes white goods. I mean, come on - who wants to spend more than a nano-second looking at rows and rows of washing machines trying to decide which of the nasty, boring cost-an-arm-and-a-leg things is the least nasty? Good grief, the tedium!! And just don’t get me started on furniture. It took six months recently for Other Half to get me into a furniture warehouse for long enough to choose a sofa!

Part of it is the salesmen, of course. Now, the perfect salesman is one who watches from a distance (preferably about a quarter of a mile) and just exactly at the moment you want to ask him a question, materialises at your side, knows his stuff and talks to you without rubbing his hands together. If he has a sense of humour, that’s a definite plus, and I might actually buy something from him. But he is a Rare Thing.

Right now, we’re in the market for a treadmill, on account of Other Half has cancelled my gym membership**. I figure with the iGallop, a treadmill, and a few weights, I can manage to keep myself reasonably fit - but only if the treadmill is the right treadmill. I want a treadmill which folds out of the way. I want a treadmill which isn’t flimsy. I want a treadmill with the deck and the hand grips in the right place and I want one without unnecessary frills.

We looked at one yesterday. For me to be able to hold the hand grips on this not-particularly-cheap item, I was treading on the plastic shield which covers up the front end of the moving belt thingy. I need to be able to hold the handles because I have seriously weak ankles, and I need to have those handles available. They’re no use six inches in front of me, on account of if I do fall, I’m going to be shooting backwards at several miles an hour.

Shame about that, because the salesman was one of the good guys who actually knew what he was talking about and had the intelligence and wit to be able to crack jokes and laugh about his equipment. I like that in a man. Sadly, the one he had which was good for both of us had a huge fancy chunk of metal and plastic on top, designed to hold two water bottles and an iPod and featuring a large pair of speakers. Yes, we’re still talking about the treadmill, folks. Do try to keep up.

So why would anyone need speakers? There is only one reason I can think of - with speakers you can have the volume up nice and loud and hopefully no-one will be able to hear you sing along. However, I don’t know about you, but when I’m on the treadmill, I don’t have enough breath to sing much above a hoarse croak anyway.

This afternoon will see us in yet another sports equipment shop looking for that elusive simple, well-made, folding treadmill that has a belt that goes round and a button to make an incline with. Oh, and a simple read-out which tells you how fast you’re going and how long you’ve been at it. And nothing much else. Except, hopefully, a guarantee. Oh yeah, and a salesman who doesn’t make me want to use one of my knives on him in a completely inappropriate way.

Wish us luck. All of us. Salesman included.

* Except knives

** I was finding it harder and harder to get myself down there three times a week.