Is it me, or is this the most useless idea ever?

I mean, for God's sake... where would I be expected to put the chocolate eclairs?

The meet.

I know I had a lot of fun. I know I laughed a lot. I know it was lovely to put so many smiling faces to names - or, more accurately, to avatars.

I know it was great to see those people I'd met before: Nick, Mrs F, Shipscook, Rubychoo, TKK, Louisa, MJohnson and of course the ultimate international hostess, Meno herself.

But I also know that I so wish that I'd taken more time to overcome the nerves and the noise in the pub to talk to more of the new faces: the warm and funny Faffajane (and her hubby), the very cute and aptly named ChynaDoll, the sweet-smiling Jacobite, the gentlemanly NotBob and the lovely ladylike Jenray.

Perhaps the person who I felt I really met properly for the first time was Mistress Eggbod. Who, I have to say, was utterly fab, incredibly glamourous and fantastically bonkers, in equal and generous measures. Exactly what I'd expected, then

Anyway, I hope you all had fun. Until the next time, folks.

xx

Some, but not all,highlights of the weekend:

Saturday 9am, bus stop in Mancsville
State of slight haziness from having gone to bed the night before at 3am miraculously disappears as adrenaline suddenly shoots though my veins and I burst into an involuntary can-can dance along the pavement. No, it wasn't a reaction to the sunshine; nor the intravenous injection of illegal substances; nor an unexpected sighting of Simon Cowell inspiring an off-the-cuff audition for Britain's Got Talent.

A bee had flown up my skirt.

Bloody skirts. More of which later.

Saturday, midday, on train to Lahnden
Curiosity as to what the sound of slamming one's backpack into the disapproving face of a middle-aged woman would be like becomes almost unbearable as the tsk-tsk, tut-tut-tut and *SIIIIIIIIIGH* heralds another text message conversation via my phone, which is on silent and vibrates soundlessly in my pocket and doesn't make a noise when you press the keys and we're not even on a quiet coach anyway, why the feck did you have to plonk yourself down opposite me, you tsking, tutting, glaring old windbag??

Saturday, 2pm, Lahnden Euston
Meeting of Mr MJohnson and RTB. Greetings are exchanged. Plans are discussed - and not decided upon. A random guided walking tour ensues, during the course of which I find out such fascinating facts as follows:

- The Other Mr Johnson, he who compiled the first dictionary, used to live in a little street behind Fleet Street. Not the street that MJohnson pointed out, of course, but the one that actually has the plaque on it providing this information.

- There is a bookshop on Fleet Street that is very famous for something of great historic importance that more people should really know about. Including MJohnson, apparently, who couldn't remember what it was. Something to do with freedom of speech. Or freedom of protest. Or freedom of a book when you buy another two. Or something.

- Reuters used to be in that building there. Yes, really. Unless it was that building there. Or perhaps it's another one.

- The Inns of Court are open to the public and are really rather fabulous inside, with lovely gardens. MJohnson would definitely recommend a visit. Perhaps I would do too, if we'd actually gone to any of them.

- St Paul's is as elegantly majestic as I always remember it to be. How I adore that building.

- The Tate Modern and all its works exemplifies that art is subjective in the truest sense of the word and there can be no right or wrong when it comes to the creation and appreciation of it. Except, of course, when it's crap.

Saturday, 5pm, outside the Tate Modern
TKK is late. Hmph. Tsk. Lateness. How rude!

Saturday, 7.30pm, in some pub
We're late for the blog meet. Oops. How rude!

Saturday, 8.30pm, Gypsy Moth, Greenwich
Blogus Meetus. More of which later.

Saturday, 11.30pm, outside the Coach and Horses
Absolutely no-one in The world took note as one MJohnson leapt onto the bench outside the pub podium for his inspirational "People of Greenwich!" speech, during the course of which he proclaimed his newly self-appointed status as Greenwich's Cult Leader, inviting one and all to follow him on the path to enlightenment or whatever the feck it was he said, which I'm sure I wuld have taken greater note of had it not been drowned by my helpless peals of laughter and gained the rousing support of one amused barman who is obviously well-versed in placating drunken madmen the entirety of Greenwich, if not indeed the City. Enjoy your throne while you may, Boris.

Sunday, 12.30am, Greenwich
Departure of Blogus Meetus for Chez MJ.

Sunday, 1.30am, Chez MJ
Arrival at Chez MJ, whereupon much mopping up is required to stem the flow of blood from our weary, blistered feet, courtesy of our inexplicable midnight trek, and the other flow of blood from our weary, blistered ears, courtesy of the complete inability of TKK to stop whinging about the inexplicable midnight trek for even one milimetre of the two-hundred-mile journey. Or after it, in fact. Try it in heels, pussy boy.

Sunday afternoon, Greenwich again
Filled with enjoyment of the radiant sunshine, mostly while lying sprawled on the side of the hill in Greenwich Park, drinking in the view, along with a bottle of beer, and enjoying the conversation of MJohnson and his lovely friends. Exclusive blog preview: watch out for a shocking post revealing the sordid secrets of dolphin nose sex, at a blog near you soon...

Sunday night, Mancsville town centre
Lesson learnt that a short skirt which seems perfectly reasonable to wear amidst the scantily-clad sunbathing crowds in Greenwich Park in the middle of the day is decidedly not the thing to be wearing in the middle of a night-time Mancsville that is ever-so-slightly more testosterone-fuelled than normal following Man United's triumph at the top of the Premiership earlier that day.

Bloody skirts.

And yes, more on the actual meet later...

Ladies, this one's for you.

Soy - shall we invest in a couple for V?

Now I'm both hungry and horny...

Watch it, Nick...

Right now, I soooo wish that I were doing this...

...is what I am currently suffering from. Oh, how I am suffering.

Symptoms include:

- Head-spinning.
- Mild hysteria.
- Contortion of facial features into an expression of utmost bewilderment.
- Involuntary outbursts of words such as "Eh?" and "Whatthefuck?"
- A near-uncontrollable thirst for mind-numbing Guinness.
- Risk of being bored to death.

It all started over three hours ago as the following conversation drew to a close:

".... so basically, we've got some interesting findings, which we're really excited about and think a lot of people would be excited about, too. Shall I send you a summary and you can put it into an article for us?"

"Sure, go ahead."

Which is why I am currently still ploughing my way though a document that includes this...

"IgE-mediated sensitization is not an all-or-nothing phenomenon, as the probability of presence and persistence of wheeze increases with increasing specific IgE antibody levels."

And this...

"U-EPX reflects the presence of atopy and associated symptoms and may be useful for monitoring the progression of allergic disease."

And, best of all, this...

"Increasing endotoxin exposure is associated with reduced risk of allergic sensitization and eczema and with increased risk of non-atopic wheeze, but only in children with the CC genotype at -159 of the CD14 gene31."

So. Are we excited yet?

*bashes head on desk and start to hyperventilate - which may or may not be related to non-atopic wheezing, depending on whatever the feck that means*

Nor do I have type 2 diabetes.

But I simply must insist that I take part in this study. Purely in the selfless interests of furthering medical knowledge and potentially benefiting all humankind, of course.

There's no denying that brain damage is a terrible injury and a traumatic experience for a young boy and his family to go through, with doubtless devasting, long-term effects.

But honestly, is this really necessary?

It. Was. An. Accident. Tragic, of course. But still.

Besides, if the woman concerned had been supervising at the time, is it likely that things would have turned out differently?

Would she, with super-human ability, have been able to pinpoint the exact moment at which a seemingly innocuous shoe heel was about to become a deadly weapon, and swoop in with the kind of speed normally only attributed to Superman, or perhaps stop time in the manner of Hiro from Heroes, in order to interrupt the offending somersault before it caused lasting damage to a young boy's life?

Or would the fact that children are always wont to leap around boisteriously on a bouncy castle have meant that the exact same scenario would have unfolded?

And now the sinful father has been brought into proceedings, who now has to deal with not only the upset that such an accident would undoubtedly cause him, but also the fact that he is being held responsible for (allegedly - since he in fact denies it) doing what all other parents presumably said to their children at that party: "Yes, son, you can go on the bouncy castle. That's what it's there for, after all."

Personally speaking, I think it's all too obvious that the real culprit here is the undisclosed manufacturer of the offensive shoe, for not ensuring that their heels instantly evaporate on contact with a person's head. Talk about irresponsible.

"We'll never be defeated!" said the Ginger to the Lime.
One whiff of us and soon you'll find her feeling quite sublime."
"That's what you think," the Lime said, whilst looking rather glum.
"It's far too early, after all, to add a tot of rum."

And to think, all this time I thought the S in PMS stood for Syndrome...

Happy Birthday Mr Potato Head!
x

But I ain't got no sympathy for the devil.

For today, Lucifer hath taken a particularly virulent form of the Cold Virus and has decided to share his earthly experience of Pure Evil with me.

*sneeze*

Do I really want to link to this?

Well. Just read it.

Quick! Someone tell the world's fattest man - his luck with the ladies is about to change...

http://www.flicklife.com/view_video.php?viewkey=4ace64a68e154ba72f24&flag=F

*clutches head*

In recognition of the outstanding efforts being put in by the nutters runners taking part in the London Marathon, I have designed my own personal marathon for the day.

1. Every race requires a warm-up. And what better way to warm up in the morning than by snuggling still further into the duvet and staying there for a further two hours after awakening?

2. Listen for the starter's gun. Which went off this morning at around 10am on episode six of my DVD set of 24, series five.

3. Hard work. It's a tough one, all right, typing tirelessly to get my articles written. Phew! *mops brow*

4. Take it easy. It's not a sprint, after all, so I'm making sure I take regular blogging breaks in-between the exhausting work.

5. Breathing. Not to be underestimated. Inhale deeply, exhale loudly. *lights cigarette*

6. Sustenance. I am keeping my endurance levels up via the consumption of high-energy foods, as befits a professional distance athlete. These include Marmite on toast and left-over Chicken Makhani with Aloo Chili.

7. Stay hydrated. Imperative for success. Cups of tea for the morning, a glass of red wine for the afternoon - good for the heart - and a few pints of iron-rich Guinness for the evening.

8. Support. Where would our runners be without cheers from the crowd? So then, cheers! *raises glass*

9. Staggering over the finish line. The finish line being the steps outside the pub I'm going to this evening. Staggering should not be a problem. I might even get a round of applause from the onlookers if I fall over at the same time.

Marathons, eh? What's all the fuss about?

*passes out*