Small talk.

We are in the kitchen.

I am cooking potatoes and admiring the reflection of my new haircut in the window.

I see a strobe type effect in a window of the building opposite.

"Look, they are having a discotheque," I say to hub.

He looks.

"There's a man in that building," replies hub.

"Yes," I say (encouragingly).

"And he watches me while I am out the back having a cigarette."

"Strangely."

"How exactly are you smoking?" I enquire (I am quite the wit).

"It could be because once, when I was a bit drunk, I did something," he continues, ignoring my hilarious joke.

There is a pause.

"You did something," I say, encouragingly again. (He can be a bit reticent.)

"Yes," he says.

"Right," I say.

"This," he says.

And he entirely pulls his trousers down and shows me his bottom.

"Yes," I say, "That would account for it."

Google

So.

For a while I have been keeping a slightly obsessive eye on what brings you, dear readers, to this bloglette (it's, like, a girl innit).

And here is a select selection of search terms from yesterday.

1. tickle drawings
2. stutennis
3. tickle hell
4. is it ok to tickle your sister
5. tea porn
6. tickle porn
7. girls tsking
8. panic attacks and microlite
9. i love john barrowman
10. weird cats

No matter how I wish it weren't, it is the case that many people end up here looking for ticklish kinky stuff. To those of you, I am very sorry. It must be a hellish disappointment.

But what I think we should really address is the question of number 4.

Dear readers, is it okay to tickle your sister?

Let's take that as a general question rather than relating specifically to your own sister. I have two sisters, both of whom I believe I have tickled in my time. I like to think this was youthful exuberance rather than morally wrong, but that's just me.

Dear readers, only you can help this poor quester, in their mire of moral flailing.

Is it okay to tickle your sister?
	yes
	no
	And what about brothers? Let's keep this gender-equal shall we?
View Results

Free poll from Free Website Polls

Help them. Please.

PS. I am sorry about the enormous gap between text and table. I am incompetent.

Tiny girl having tiny crisis.

It seems I am growing up.

I fought hard and sometimes with teeth to follow the path of theatre. I fought my school, I fought my parents, I sometimes fought lovers. (I did not always win. But I did always live to fight another day.)

Over the last year or so, something strange has happened to me.

I have very gradually given up.

I don't want to fight anymore.

It feels a bit horrible. All those people who say you just have to believe enough, or want it enough or fight enough, it turns out they are not entirely right.

It hurts a bit.

I want to believe in dreams. I want to have ideals and I want to look cynicism squarely in the eye and sneakily stamp on its toes.

Maybe my dreams have changed.

Because it is not possible to have such things as houses or dogs or children if one is a starving artiste.

(Literally starving. Or at the very least entirely fed up with pasta.)

I have met a man who I want to have a whole life with. And that does sort of entail me being able to actually have it. Monetarily. Even though I hate that I have just typed that. GRR.

But I want to see things with him and do things with him and become, I don't know what, just not someone who is struggling and desperate and made frozen by lack of resource.

I do not think that is what life is about.

There are Things in life. Like other countries for example. And dogs. And children. I might have mentioned that before.

Do I seem superficial?

Oh, I am having a little tiny crisis.

(I am sure it will pass.)

I apologise.

It is not exactly articulate.

And also, I do not know what to do about it.

Below them was a 700 foot abyss.

My husband is insisting on watching a programme about mountains.

He climbs mountains, I do not know if I have told you.

He is so manly.

*sigh*

Anyway. The bloody buggering point is that he wants me to pay attention.

To the variety of ways in which he could die while climbing a mountain. Could plummet to his snowy death. Could crash senselessly, bouncing off rocky protuberances down feet and metres and miles of mountainy meaness.

(By the way, we had plaice this evening, it was LOVELY. I do recommend plaice. It is a mighty fish.)

He described how one gentleman climber actually used the frozen dead body of another climber to help him get up a rock face. (I do not know how. I did not ask. Although I suspect it was not by asking for advice.)

"Everything is compressing into small moments of time. Every fibre of your body is concentrating on every tiny move. There is that moment when activity stops. You just know that you can't do this. And you have to accept that it's over."

Joe Simpson is a cock-monkey-head.

I do not mind saying.

PS. I do not tire of saying"my husband". I wonder if I shall.

The trappings of fame.

I have an old friend who is a tiny bit famous. I will not tell you who he is because half of you will not have heard of him. It is not like, for example, having an old friend who is Sting. Then I would tell you all and you would ask me questions about tantric sex.

Which I could not answer.

Anyway. My friend. He is a musician. And the other night he was playing here in the Brighton (by the sea!) and we went to see him.

It was most odd.

He has been my friend since we were 11. At school he was a tiny little blonde thing, shorter even than me (and I think my regular readers - bless you - are aware of exactly how short that is). We were in school plays together. He is one of a group of very dear friends with whom I spent the summer following my A levels.

The band are good. They are really good. The music is original, catchy, and bouncy. Excellent qualities I think you'll agree.

There was a queue to get in. Lots of yoof waiting to see if they could get tickets.

I was on the guest list.

I felt like such a wanker.

"But what do I say?" I whispered to hub.

"You say you're on the guest list you twat," he replied.

He is harsh but fair.

I did not like it though. I stuttered like a girl. An embarrassed, slightly guilty and a tiny-bit-old-to-be-there girl.

But the free ticket bit was good.

I watched my friend be totally ace on stage and everyone in the audience was singing along to the songs and dancing and stuff.

I nearly burst with pride.

Afterwards, I went backstage to see him and say well done. I was stopped by a small weasley looking man.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm a friend of the singer, I just wanted to say well done..."

I felt like such a cock.

It was okay though, he let me through. After I had waited five minutes. Or so.

And when I was finally talking to my friend, a massive and extremely hard-looking man (I assume some kind of security chap) came up and said,

"So are you and the band alright for things?"

My friend answered that they were fine.

There was a pause, as the man glanced at me as if I was my friend's mother. Or aunt. Or babysitter.

"Yeah but, are you alright for .... things?"

He received the same answer.

I slunk into the night.

I am not cut out for the famous lark.

The Weird Cat

Has become a spy!

I do not know for whom she is working. It could be the CIA. Or the KGB. Or perhaps PAWS.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

I am so funny.

As you were.

Edition 2.

Miss Tickle successfully predicts environmental awareness. One light bulb for all!

And more delightful maths!

And chiefs!

I sincerely do not know what more, dear readers, you could desire.

An announcement.

I find my mother-in-law tricky.

End of announcement.

Edition 1.

So.

When you move house, you find things.

I give you, dear readers, for your entertainment and delectation:

UNDERWATERWORLD.

A series.

By Miss Tickle, aged 9.

PS. I remember quite clearly drawing around my protractor.

PPS. I was always exact.

PPPS. If you click on it, you can make it bigger, which will give you a fighting chance of reading the teeny-tiny writing, and, what's more, admiring my extremely good grasp of maths.

The Weird Cat

Is eating pea soup.

And earning her title.

Also (and with swearing) those wildnerness cookery people are utter cunts.

I mean really.

Guy and Thomasina.

Misspent yoof

The dancing child was called Angel.

And here are some more Names of Yoof I have recently stumbled upon in my new position as Drama Animateur (I do not understand this title. I do no drawing. I do theatre! Theatre, I say!) in a school near the seaside.

1) Paisley
2) Shelby
3) Harley
4) Jared
5) Jordan
6a) Taylor
6b) Tyler

I do not mind Jared, for I was once desperately in love with Jared Leto, although this was in the early nineties while he was the brooding and delicious Jordan Catalano, an angsty teenage girl's dream in My So Called Life, an excellent angsty and delicious teenage programme.

You would think that by association, I would not mind Jordan either. But this is not the case.

I will certainly add to this list as and when I come across more of the anthropological mysteries of East Sussex.

They do things differently here.

PS. I was delighted to discover last night that Robin Hood is back on our screens! It is a truly appalling programme. But the sweet joy of watching Jonas Armstrong far outweighs the crap acting, the thin narrative and the dire script. Not to mention the frequent and ditressing anachronisms. Two Ronnies quotes anyone?
PPS. It has just struck me that Jonas Armstrong and Jared Leto do not look dissimilar, and further, hub bears a passing resemblance to both! I have a type! A beardy type!

I cannot think of a title. So there.

I am sorry for the radio silence. I am a Bad Blogger. Naughty Miss T.

It is all the new stuff, you see. Everywhere! New! It is very exciting. I am doing a lot of frolicking. And just as much chasing of the Bill People.

Damn the Bill People.

And also the Estate Agents.

Grr.

Have you heard tell of this song "I like all the girls"?

It is not a great masterpiece.

But yesterday, in a shop, a small girl was dancing to it.

She was very sweet.

Her father said, "Angel, stop that now."

I thought, "Angel. Blimey."

The little girl (Angel) stopped. And thought.

Then she started dancing again.

And singing.

"Daddy likes all the girls. Daddy likes all the girls."

I did a sort of a cross between a snigger and a chuckle.

I do not know what you would call it.

Snickle?

I liked it.