Because today I received this email and I needed to share it with you.
I not entirely sure about the wisdom of sharing work-type (and especially school-based) emails, but frankly, bollocks.
PLEASE BE AWARE THAT THERE IS SUPPOSED TO BE A FIGHT AT BREAK WITH THE EMUS AND THE YEAR 8s. MIGHT BE RUBBISH BUT BEST BE AWARE. 
It is so important for teachers to be down with the kids, don't you think?
Boys and girls.
I am having a mini-life-sort-of-a-problem.
I may be some time.
Thought I'd just let you know.
In the meantime, here is a mildly sarcastic notice from the South Bank of London.
Do you see what they did there?
Back soon.
Lady things. Really annoying lady things. I am not un-self-aware and I have some compunction about sharing ickyness with others so I will not go into detail, but I cannot emphasise too clearly REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING.
I painted an ark.
I shouted at yoof.
I became addicted to, of all things, a computer game. When wandering the streets of Brighton I am now scrutinising everyone whose path I cross and considering if they are hungry, need to go to the toilet or could do with a slightly more pumping social life.
I bought a banjo. A banjo ukulele. For my father's 60th birthday. My father looks like John Peel crossed with a garden gnome. It is going to be brilliant.
That is all. Life has not been totally thrilling. Tomorrow I may cause some kind of public hoo-hah to keep me interested. Any ideas, as always, gratefully received and thoughtfully considered.
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."
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.
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.
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.
