What I like most about this blogging lark are the rare occasions when - after I have got it off my chest - everyone else treats my place as a cosy living-room to sit around having a chat in afterwards.
This has happened twice in very quick succession of late, and - despite what Heron says - I really appreciate it when I am not the centre of the world, and conversations take place between the rest of you as if I was almost not there. It makes for very healthy comment figures as well, which is always a bonus - even if I am not 'monetised'.
A further positive aspect to this is that it allows me to practice the 'sniping' technique of one-liner responses, without the restraints I place on myself when visiting someone else's blog (oh yes I do).
I have a friend who does nothing but snipe (meant in the most positive way) and keeps his head well below the parapet, even in everyday life. You could Google him until the end of time, and never find out his real identity. That's the way he likes it, for reasons which I have always been too polite to ask him about (oh yes I have).
It was very cold here yesterday, but not as cold as my body perceived it to be. I suspected I was in the process of beginning some sort of illness, and this morning my suspicions were confirmed. I have almost lost my voice. Don't worry though, I have not lost the ability to type, so my big, ugly mouth still has a way of expressing itself.
So last night, having forced H.I. to eat the comfort food which I desired, I went to bed at 10.30, only to be awoken at 4.00 by the effects of my eating it. Rule number one: Never make a supper of baked beans, washed down with red wine. I break this rule every three months or so, knowing full well what is going to happen a few hours later.
Anyone reading this post as I am now re-writing it will be surprised to find that most of it has gone if and when they next go back to it. I - having decided not to go to work today - have a lot of time on my hands. Lucky you.
Occasionally I go to a friend's recently acquired house for the first time, and they usually ask me if I would like to look upstairs at the rest of it.
Why would I want to do that? I have seen the upstairs of plenty of houses in my time, and looking at another one which isn't an Elizabethan or Tudor gem would really make no difference, tasteful bedcovers or not.
It's the same with gardens - there are only so many herbaceous borders you can see without being reminded of all the others. At least if you go to see the tulip fields of Holland, it is an extraordinary experience, like them or not.
I was invited to the house of a gay couple who are (or were - they split up) friends of mine, and reluctantly agreed to be given a guided tour of the upstairs. Ironically, one of them is now head gardener for a huge country house near here, but I never got a little tour of his plot at the cottage where we had lunch as his pug dog masturbated with one paw. Now he has to plant around all my stoneware which inhabits the his employer's estate.
I was shown into their spotlessly clean and neat bedroom, and began to admire the massive, king-sized bed with cream duvet on it, all puffed up and invitingly cosy-looking.
Without warning, I took a running-jump at it and landed in the middle, letting out a sigh of comfort as I seriously contemplated a short nap after lunch.
You should have seen the looks on their faces, just before they shook themselves out of their state of shock and screamed at me to get off!
I often forget that beds are sacrosanct areas of intimate privacy from which one escapes the outside world, but that is hardly surprising when people proudly take you into their bedrooms to show them off.
Nobody, but nobody, is allowed in my bedroom - even the police, now that I have sold all my guns.