Sheer - and rather hot - mischief...

It's possibly naughty of me, but I'm going to post a link because this is hilarious.  Talk about British Stiff Upper Lip.  It's rather wonderful to see men being so determindly strong and silent in the face of pressure.  Pressure of the chilli-flavoured sort; I'm not making an obscure pun and this is not pornographic at all, rather it's four fine, manly men eating raw chilli on camera - and then going very, very quiet...  Whoever blarneyed them into doing this deserves an award for sheer mischief.

The wrong man is on my roof

Well, there’s a man on the roof of my office, and a mosquito inside it.  Why can’t it be the other way around?  Not that I necessarily want this particular man in my office, but any human would be preferable to a ruddy mozzie – which I have so far singularly failed to squish.  Grr. 

I know I am turning into a dirty old woman now I’ve seen the wrong side of forty, but honestly – why do maintenance men always look like one of the thuggy guys from “Eastenders”?  They never look like Will Houston, or Gary Avis, or Roderick Williams, or Jeremy Renner...    Or even like Mr Marinated Artichokes, or the Lovely Wes.   I’ve got a great view of this chap’s legs, but I have seen much better legs in my time.

I should explain that I’m suffering my usual atypical response to medication.  Most women lose their sex drive when they get a mirena coil, but mine trebled – it feels like I’m channeling Samantha Jones the entire time.  I’m sitting here eating black olive paste on home-baked mixed seed bread and thinking about what I could do with the black olive paste if I had the attractive man of my dreams (as opposed to the unattractive man of the roof) in here with me; it’s so weird.  I have never been a Samantha Jones-type girl.  Never.  I’ve been a good, quiet, modest lass (as is befitting in one so stout and plain).  But now – well, I have never stared at so many men’s bums in the street as the last few months.  It’s just really, really weird.

I haven’t started acting like Samantha Jones, I should add; just thinking like her.  I actually haven’t got a clue how to become a voracious man-eater.  Indeed, the idea is rather comical.  Whereas becoming a sneaky old letch seems to come naturally.  Oh well.  Thank goodness for the beautiful bodies and faces of actors and dancers and so on, then.  At least I have something to leer at.

Mind you, it’s also since the mirena settled down that I got this wild drive of creative juice and started writing again.  So maybe being juicy in one sense goes with being juicy in the other.  If so, I cannot complain, for anything that keeps my creativity up is welcome and blessed - even if it is also inconvenient and baffling!  But I can and do complain that the man on the roof isn’t a hunk.  Drat it, if I’ve got to be disturbed by all this crashing around overhead, I demand eye candy in compensation!    

One visual pleasure is presenting itself to me; not a man, but a tree.  There’s a big maple across the Green with leaves that are slowly turning the most glorious flaming orange-red, from the top down, as the autumn nights grow cooler.  The colour is practically incandescent in the sunlight.  It’s simply stunning.

Horoscope madness

My horoscope for today just popped into my inbox. This just may be the weirdest horoscope I've ever had...

"Is your wandering honey in Southern California, or are they off playing music or dancing, maybe on a journey of scientific discovery? Tonight or tomorrow could be a day to call or text them to remind them that you're there for them. It can't hurt. Meanwhile, back at the office, you can apply your hard-earned skills to really fire someone up, maybe even someone attractive. Swim into the depths with them a bit and see what happens. As Sag well knows, you can be loyal and have the fun of flirtation at the same time."

Come again? Am I really being urged to go out and get myself into an office flirtation? That's the most blatant bit of "advice" I've ever had in a horoscope. More fool me, I guess, for never having gotten around to cancelling it. Now, of course, my mind is boggling with imaginary scenarios involving falling in the big tropical pool in the Waterlily House and being rescued by the lovely Wes Shaw, or the ever patient Phil Griffiths... I'll end up with another crop of wild dreams at this rate. Good grief. Down, girl!

I don't have a honey, wandering or otherwise, so at least the first bit doesn't apply by any stretch of the imagination. Thank heavens for small mercies.

I was in the Waterlily House in my lunch break; it is looking stunning at the moment, with a marvellous display of Nymphaea species, mimosa and hibiscus everywhere, and great baskets of Aristolochias hanging from the ceiling. It would be criminal to fall in the pool at the moment. I might break a Victoria cruziana!