My moment with Mark

To be fair, that's a rather misleading title - it was more 'smooching with Mark' and it was Hobbs doing it, not me.

Glasgow has been going Take That-tastic over the last few nights and it got me thinking about the time I met Mark Owen.

Normal people would probably have met him in fairly normal circumstances; not me.

I had to meet him in the corridor of a disabled toilet (my radio station colleagues and I had temporarily converted it to a canine creche) and try to explain that the small puppy which he was cuddling and kissing (and which was kissing him back with great enthusiasm) was there because he had a throat infection and the vet had told me to keep an eye on him.

As Mark was in the station to promote a single for his solo career, this wasn't great news to have to impart, but rather than dropping Hobbs like a germ infested hot potato, he carried on with the cuddling and then signed a photograph for him, which Hobbs still has to remind him of the moment that most women dream of - kissed and cuddled by Mark Owen.

Admittedly, he was the cutest puppy ever but damn, that dog gets all the fun!

My Eggstra-ordinary Mother

This has nothing whatsoever to do with spending, not spending or being a shopaholic; although I suppose it's an excellent example of what you can do with a little time and effort and very little expense.

It is, however, the perfect way to show just quite how fabulously bonkers my mother can be.

This is what she had prepared for us to roll down the hill at her house last Sunday and it seems selfish not to share it...

Eggstra Special Easter

PS - for those of you curious to know who hurtled down the hill into pole position, it was Isabella. Go Blow!!

The Tank-top Of Shame!

I have very little in the way of an excuse for my latest action, but I'll give it a try anyway.

Firstly, I was feeling sorry for myself having found out that I had pleurisy and was doing that whole 'Woe is me' lying on the couch thing; secondly, Charles Tyrwhitt had sent me a voucher for £10 off anything that took my fancy; thirdly - and most importantly - I'd spotted a tank-top in the brochure they'd sent.

I blame my tank-top addiction on my parents, who took every possible opportunity during my childhood to subject me to 1970s golf wear. Somewhere amidst all that retina searing clobber, I managed to single out the tank-top as my favourite piece of geek chic.

Now, I've been strong in the face of shopping this year - giving way only when (in the best interests of my work-mates) I felt that ripped, rump exposing linen was unacceptable for the office - but this tank-top was a temptation too far in my weakened state.

It was navy, a mix of merino and silk, and (did I mention this already) it was £10 off!

Anyway, those are my excuses and, quite frankly, none of them are good enough to justify keeping what is essentially half a jumper (delightful though it is), so having unwrapped it and gazed at it for the last 24 hours, I've decided it's going back from whence it came and I can sleep easy; guilt free in the knowledge that I haven't quite broken my shopping ban.

Well, that's torn it...

I have to apologise for the lack of blogging lately - especially to Anna who has been asking where I've been.

I'd love to say that I've been so busy planning my wedding to George Clooney / Ewan McGregor / anyone who'll have me that I haven't had a chance to update, but that would be a blatant lie; so I can only say sorry and blame my lengthy commute for stealing my time in the evenings when I should be writing.

On the plus side - apart from complete essentials - my shopping has been non-existent. Well, apart from the 'work trouser emergency' caused by over-enthusiastic leaping into the car at the end of the day and my lovely linen deciding that the strain was too much for its delicate weave.

Buttock exposure is all very well if you're Lady Gaga but in my line of work, it might be slightly frowned upon during a morning meeting, even if you are wearing rather lovely lingerie.

I had no choice but to replace my torn trews; however, instead of my usual hoovering up of Hobbs, Jaeger or Whistles for that perfect pair of black trousers, I headed for H & M.

The pair I picked up there may have had a zero less on the price tag but you know what? They're still black, they're still linen, they're still perfect for work and my rump isn't being revealed, so I'd say that was money well spent.

Temptation...

Barely a day has gone by this year when I haven't received an e-mail, text, letter or call from my lost love, desperate to see me and unable to understand why I've so abruptly called a halt to our union.

And while my heart leaps with every contact, I know that I can't give in.

E-mails and texts are deleted, letters are shredded and calls left unanswered, but the temptation is always there; the temptation to push my way through their door (leaving my fingerprints as the evidence of my faithlessness for all to see on the plate glass panels), throw my clothes to the floor and rush into the arms of my love for just one more dalliance, one more thrill...

But that's my weakness and I know it wouldn't be 'just one last time'. The memory of that moment of bliss would lead to more and more reckless behaviour and I can't take that risk, not just now anyway.

Apart from the obvious guilt of breaking my promise, I'm not feeling toned and trim enough for all that unzipping in front of floor to ceiling mirrors.

I can only hope that by the time I do return - leaner, meaner and without a shopping ban - that my beloved Jaeger will welcome me once more...