Swivel And Snake

Good Lord, I've managed to get to Thursday without telling you about my weekend. Not that it was of particular interest, but I know how you like to hear all my sordid details. In fact there weren't any this weekend. We were terribly well behaved, which caused much furrowing of The Boyf's brow.

It was our 1st anniversary at the weekend, but it coincided with some friends of our coming over from New York, so we spent most of our time with them. Thus we didn't really get a chance just to have some time to ourselves to celebrate it. Hopefully we'll have a nice night out sometime this weekend; just some good food and a glass or two of wine.

Clubbing was good on Saturday, with good music and sexy guys in abundance. One guy was of particular interest, mainly due to him having an incredible swivelling hip. I've never seen someone walk or dance in quite such a fashion, or with quite such small steps. He walked like a geisha, or quite possibly an even more effeminate C3PO, and when dancing his top half seemed to be able to revolve independantly of his bottom half. And no, it wasn't because of the drugs I was on; a couple of other people remarked on it too. We coined him "The Incredible Articulated Queen". Not the most snappy of titles, but we'd been out all evening and barely knew our own names by then. Very handsome man though, and the swivelling did make me wonder what he'd be like in bed. Like trying to make love to a snake I reckon, which I wouldn't recommend. They're always too busy with their tongues. And they never call the next day.

OMO At The Movies: "The Night Listener"

So, I was going to say something about "The Night Listener" wasn't I?

Ok, "The Night Listener"; don't bother. I mean, it's an Ok film, but just felt rather flat. The whole 'twist' in the story felt very under-done, it wasn't thrilling, it wasn't creepy, and it wasn't a great character study. Toni Collette was pretty good, but on the whole the characters needed fleshing-out more. Robin Williams aimed for "confused and pertubed" but hit "plain bored looking". The Boyf has read the book and said it has far more atmosphere. I'd say if you want to see it then wait for the DVD; there's no reason to see it on the big screen.

'Curious Clive' Update

He's singing "Xanadu".

Nuff said.

I Shall Not Flirt!

Hoo, I just saw the cute guy at work again. We passed each other in reception and he smiled at me! Now, I would normally do one of two things in such a situation; a) go red and giggle behind my hand in a Dangerous-Liaisons-But-Without-A-Fan kinda way , or b) give a "What the fuck are you looking at" stare whilst internally going red and giggling. In this case I gave a friendly smile and carried on walking.

I'm on a self-imposed flirting ban you see. During the "little issue" I had with The Boyf a couple of weeks back I made the grandiose promise that "I Would Never Flirt Again, Ever!". He looked at me with a similar look of incredulity normally reserved for when I say I don't fancy a cake, and I must admit to rolling my eyes and doing my "We both know I can't keep this promise but let's run with it for a bit, eh?" face. So flirting I am not. Not even when faced with a rather lovely Spaniard last Saturday night with a big hairy chest. I managed to spend the entire evening not looking at him, and then not speaking to him even when he got chatting to The Boyf (which frankly always spells trouble). So imagine my surprise when he left the club and came home with us, as I'd been oblivious to what was going on due to my apparent aloofness.

This not flirting thing is working out rather well I fancy.

Bye Sam

The Boyf got a phone call early yesterday evening to say that his dog, Sam, needed to be put down. He'd had to leave him in the Midlands with family when he moved to London, but we still saw alot of him as we travel up quite regularly. Naturally The Boyf was really upset, and this morning he got up early and drove up to be with Sam when the vet arrived.

It's funny how little things can bring back memories, especially when you're already feeling a bit low. We were in Tesco's last night, after having seen "The Night Listener" at the cinema (more about that later). We'd had to skip dinner because of the early starting film and I hadn't managed to fill myself up with M&M's, so was feeling peckish and wanted something quick to warm up. I settled for a tin of ravioli (told you I was a bit common underneath, but hey! it was Heinz). The Boyf went for some grey looking soup, just so you know. Anyway, because the news about the dog had made me a little maudlin, as soon as I picked up the can of ravioli I suddenly found myself having to stifle back tears. When I was at junior school I lived just across the road from the school, and every lunchtime I'd go home to have something to eat. My Dad would always be there, as he used to do the same thing - pop home for lunch. My Mum at this time was working pretty much full-time so lunchtimes were just about me and my Dad. And almost every day I'd ask for the same thing - a tin of ravioli.

I'd not eaten tinned ravioli for quite some time. Being all grown-up and a little bit snobby I'd eschewed it in favour of the proper stuff. But last night, as I ate the tinned stuff I felt like a kid again, and I remembered how I'd sit with my Dad each lunchtime and how pleased he was to see me, and how we'd chat about this and that.

I've just had the call to say Sam's gone. So goodbye Sam. I hope that where you're going there are lots of fields to run in and cats to chase. And if you see my Dad (and somehow he understands barking) tell him I said thanks for those ravioli lunchtimes.

Question Number 1

Who IS Peggy Babcock anyway?

The Log Flume

So, the weekend was fun, once again. So much so that I couldn't type about it yesterday cause my hands were still shaking. I thought possibly Parkinson's but apparently it was just detox.

On Saturday we went to Brighton with a couple of friends of ours. One of them had some business to attend to down there so we went along to keep the other company for the day. One rather alarming discovery was made however; Waltzers make me scream. I mean REALLY scream. My voice went up by at least 3 octaves. On exiting the ride we found a stunned silence among the assembled on-lookers. They were obviously expecting a 6 year old girl on helium being chased by Gary Glitter, rather than a 13-odd stone hairy 35 year old male with a giggling fit. I blamed the sugar rush caused by a chocolate waffle.

All this brought back memories of the last time I was in Brighton, which caused it's own squeals for quite some other reason. Being a lovely summer's day, we'd travelled to Brighton to point and giggle at the people on the nudist beach, whilst keeping our clothes on (or so I thought). I should have known better as The Boyf rarely keeps his clothes on no matter where we find ourselves. So, after an afternoon of trying to be demure whilst The Boyf wandered about in the buff, I was ready for a drink, or three.

To cut a long story short we got drunk and missed our last train but were invited to an orgy, which actually turned out to be at a porn film-set in a warehouse. The Boyf was all pleading eyes and I was too drunk to care so off we went. Oh, I should have known better. On arriving we found the orgy consisted of the pair of us, one rather sexy older guy, and three guys who we really didn't want to imagine naked let alone actually see. But hey, in for a penny, in for a pounding. Again, I'll spare you some of the gory details and proceed straight to the money shot; the sexy older guy suddenly appeared with an enormous dildo, and an equally enormous grin. My initial reaction was to bolt for the door, but with a triumphant look on his face and the delicacy of a hippo on a bouncy castle the guy placed the dildo on the floor and sat on it. He then leant forward to be on all fours, ass facing towards me, and said "Fuck me with it, boy!". Well, if it shuts him up, thought I, and proceeded to do what he said, rather nonchalantly I might add. (I had actually seen a copy of "Hello" magazine on a coffee table and was trying to read the cover in the gloom). Anyway, I soon got bored with this and he looked like he'd had his fill (I'd say!), so I let him take a hold of it, and with that he pulled it out and...

(Those just eaten need to look away about..... now)

...promptly shit all over the floor. And without so much a By-Your-Leave. Oh, and the smell! Needless to say, I let out the aforementioned little squeal and The Boyf and I headed for the door, and oxygen.

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, brings us right back to chocolate waffles.

So Campo

The conversation in the office today seemed to be referencing harnesses and ropes, but to my annoyance the place hasn't suddenly gone all S&M on me; they were talking about abseiling. They then went on to base-jumping, bungee-jumping, parachuting, and then - this is where I entered the conversation - why extreme sportsmen aren't very sexy. They always seem to have way too much blond hair, and not enough body fat. For some reason their (for some) beautifully honed bodies always remind me of freshly defrosted chicken breasts. After a spray tan.

I do so like to throw something girly into the middle of a macho conversation. The Girls In Hot Pink Blouses so love me for doing it. And it gives them the start of a conversation, for normally they can be found simply clucking and looking blankly into pages of Heat magazine. Or arranging stationery, strangely hypnotised by the pink fluffy things atop their pens.

Being Friday afternoon everyone's a leeetle bit drunk, and the conversation normally turns to which guy is going to which club looking for some bird with enormous dirty-pillows. And always, without fail, someone accidentally asks me what I'll be doing. And as soon as they do I see everyone hunker down, as if a particularly nasty stink-bomb has been thrown in to the middle of the office, whilst they wait, expecting me to say that I'll be bathing in semen, or playing "Hide the Salami". But I've become bored with seeing their shocked faces, and now it's so much funnier just to say "I can't really tell you, otherwise you'll be berating yourselves all weekend for leading such dull lives". Works every time.

Have a good weekend, y'all.

Great Fashion Disasters Of Our Time: Exhibit 1

There is a woman in our office today who appears to be wearing a skirt made out of the nylon normally reserved for hot air balloons. And it's in champagne and pink stripes, is very shiny, and nearly ripped the (cheap) fillings from my teeth with the static it's building up.

I'm off to see if she's carrying any sandbags, or whether the skirt comes equipped with basket, champagne and some council couples having a romantic flight over their home town (courtesy of a voucher bought in Argos).

Why I'm Not Kissing The Boyf Today

"Hmmm" he pondered thoughtfully, as he turned over in the bed to admire the masculine visage of his boyfriend. "How is it that I feel ok this morning, but The Boyf looks like shit?"

The Boyf normally manages to have this veneer of a healthy looking glow, even if he's been out for an entire weekend. I, on the other hand, sometimes look like crap after an early night and lots of deep sleep. Today the tables were turned. Well, not quite. I don't really have a healthy looking glow, but I look a darn sight better than The Boyf, who, I might add, threw up in some toilets last night, and then again in the road outside. Alot. He thinks he might have a tummy bug. I think it might be something to do with the 6 pints of Grolsch, 2 Malibu and cokes (!), and the joint he smoked. On a school night (for him, literally), I ask you!

He'd managed to smoke the joint in a bar thanks to the pervading stench of cigar, which frankly obliterated every other smell in the building, possibly in Greater London, although reports of aircraft getting lost in a odd fog over SE1 last night are still to be confirmed. The offending smoker was puffing away on the largest cigar I've ever seen, a good 12 inches long I reckon. I normally measure lengths by popping stuff in my mouth, which can be fun when trying to see if a sofa will fit in the lounge, but in this instance I decided to just hazard a guess. The upshot of his cigar smoking antics was a huge pile of ash, which he'd decided would look better on the floor rather than in the conveniently provided ashtrays. I hadn't spotted this ash pile until a friend of ours pointed it out, to which I exclaimed "Oh my God! It looks like my Dad!". Needless to say, The Boyf spat out a mouthful of lager, which was obviously a portent as to what would be happening with the rest of his intake later in the evening.

Fit For A Queen, Natch

I should tell you that the company that presently appears to be employing me solely to sit on the net all day chatting to friends is largely populated by ex-public schoolboys. And girls from Essex. What never ceases to surprise me is how sheep-like each group are in relation to their peers where is comes to appearance. All of the girls seem to consider wearing a hot pink blouse with a black skirt to be utterly acceptable. Have they not been paying attention to Trinny and Susannah; bold colours with black just make you look cheap. Well, cheaper. The guys on the other hand all have floppy hair, and take no chances with the choice of suit/shirt/tie. It's massive pinstripes (rolls eyes), with blue or white shirts and navy ties.

Hence today I am soliciting a large number of stares. No, dear reader, I haven't turned up in my hot pink blouse. It's in the cleaners. Instead I'm wearing a lemon yellow shirt, which I've teamed with... wait for it... a lime green tie. Yes, I know what you're thinking, but honestly it does seem to work, even if it was an accident. No really, it does. Stop that sniggering! Even "The Gay Who Is Terribly Good With Colours... etc" was stopped dead in his tracks this morning and had to begrudgingly say "Hmmm, ok, I'm getting it" before flouncing off looking perturbed. He's not used to the competition in the style stakes and rushed off to buy something floral to match with his striped shirt. Probably. He will of course turn up tomorrow wearing a hat at a jaunty angle and a ra-ra skirt, but I intend not to be outdone. There's an enormous mad woman down my road with an outrageous nipple-flashing Laura Ashley dress which I'm sure she'd lend me for the price of the walnut off my whip. Lord knows she tries to talk to me every morning when I walk past (for she's always careering about outside like an untethered inflatable art installation), and the look in her eye always suggests she's ready to drop the dress at the mearest hint of eye contact.

Things I Dislike: No.1

Now, I've already mentioned this before, but I really don't like people talking to me when I'm trying to have a pee.

I've just walked into the toilet at work - the mens, no less - to find a colleague stood at a urinal, of which there are two. I dilligently stood at the free one, only for him to pipe up "I'm going to be here a while you know. At my last medical the doctor said I had something wrong with my prostate, and it takes a while for the flow to start". I replied with a "Oh. That's nice", whilst simultaneously trying not to think about him having a rectal examination. He may have a dodgy prostate but I'm pee-shy, hence we ended up standing next to each other for rather longer than would seem comfortable, especially since I seem to have a reputation as "The Gay Who Likes To Try To Look At Your Willie In The Toilets" (well, you have to don't you?). There is another one of us at work but he's known as "The Gay Who's Terribly Good With Colours, And Doesn't He Have Lovely Hair". Anyway, finally the chanting of the lyrics to "Underwater Love" in my head does its job and I'm peeing, which appeared to help my colleague with his own dilemma.

So, if any of you stumble across me in a toilet please don't speak to me. Feel free to sing songs about the ocean, however. Oh, and please don't make me think about you with a hand up your ass unless you look like Ross Kemp. Or Orville.

Petula Clark

My Mum is such a flirt. She was taken to a Goose Fair yesterday by my sister and her new partner. My sister, I should add, has already managed to get through three husbands and is in no rush to add a fourth. The running order for the first three is divorced, dead, divorced, so I'm guessing the current beau doesn't want to marry her anyway in case a pattern is emerging.

Anyway, it was a lovely day so the Goose Fair seemed like a good idea, and The Boyf and I were invited to lunch after. I had no idea what a Goose Fair was, and it certainly didn't look like a range of tiny carousels and roller-coasters where you could take your fowl for a fun day out. It looked like an oversized village fete, pretentiously titled. My goose was most put-out, having been looking forward to a go on the Not Very Big Dipper since we mentioned it. We therefore never went in, simply sweeping past on the way to my nephew's pub to meet my Mum and sister for said lunch. Once we arrived I found my Mum at the bar perched atop lardy ex-footballer Neil "Razor" Ruddock's knee. Apparently my sister had left my Mum to have a sit down in what she thought was a quiet corner of the fair where she couldn't cause trouble, only to have my Mum phone her mobile minutes later to say that she'd bumped into Razor and family and had invited them to the pub for lunch.

So there we are after lunch in the pub garden; my Mum, my sister, her partner, me and The Boyf, Razor, Leah Newman (Page 3 model and currently heavy with a baby Razor), and Razor's Dad and partner. My Mum, still on Razor's lap, is actually flirting with his Dad, a two-way flirt which even managed to impress The Boyf (who did whisper into my ear "Ah, now I know where you get it from". I was so pleased). Leah, I have to add, was about as dumb as a chicken in stilettos, and thus utterly wonderful. She was quite surprised to find that The Boyf and I weren't brothers, but then I think she would have been surprised if someone had told her the sky was blue, or that the forth season of Six Feet Under wasn't really very good. When ordering lunch she said "I can't have pork cause it tastes like pig, dunnit. Do you have any sausages?". Bless!

Oh yeah, the title of this thread was actually part of the punchline to an anecdote Razor told us about Sean Connery, but I can't repeat it due to it probably being highly libellous. I can tell you however that my Mum, on hearing that Razor had met Sean recently, said "Aw, he's getting on now. Did he smell of piss?". I do hope my Mum gets to meet the Queen one day.

I Should Have Known

The guy that sits next to me at work has spent his lunch-hour signing songs from "The Wizard of Oz". Not all that unusual, if he were actually a Friend of Dorothy. But no, he's married. To a woman and everything, although she is a dental nurse from the Czech Republic. I assume dentistry in the land of the Czech still involves large hammers, or thread and hastily shut doors, so I'm guessing she's not all that womanly.

He once asked me "What's the largest thing you've ever had up your arse?"

Now I know why he's known as "Curious Clive".


UPDATE:

He's now doing that little nursery rhyme:

"Georgie Porgie puddin' pie
Kissed the girls and made them cry
When the boys came out to play
He kissed them too cause he was gay"

He IS trying to tell me something isn't he?

I'm Not Single, Or A Trophy Holder

Well, I'm still "with boyf". I ended up squirming out of my place in Sports Day and went straight home to talk to The Boyf about "our little problem". It's kinda resolved, although I think it's gonna take him a few days to return to normal with me - he's a bit on the quiet side - and I think it's probably gonna take some months to claw back the ground I've lost, where his estimation of me is concerned. His biggest problem was that he said that I'd always been like a rock to him, and that he'd never had any cause to doubt or disbelieve me before. I would have felt exactly the same if it'd been me catching him out.

Anyway, I've learned a lesson, and hopefully no long-term harm has been done. Oh, and "my" team came second at Sports Day. Of course, I like to think that had I been there we would have lifted the winner's trophy (plastic cup) and popped the cork of a bottle of Cristal (Lambrusco). Actually, I prefer Lambrusco. Yes, my council roots are showing, as they did this morning when I told someone that I was going to Benjy's "cause they use marg' instead of butter". There was a stunned silence in the office. I couldn't tell the difference from the usual silence that pervades in my office these days, so left to get my toast.

Hop, Skip and Thump

Oh crap! I'd forgotten something. For some strange reason I signed up for the works sports day, which takes place today. It seemed like a good idea when they asked me weeks ago, but within minutes I regretted it. Still, I did it last year and it was quite good fun. Apparently I'm down for the Space Hopper race, which should be amusing as I've not been on one for years. I'm hoping the technique is similar to sitting on a cock and then bouncing. I'll have to remember to keep my trousers on. General office feeling suggested I'd be good in the sack race.

I just hope no-one expects me to throw anything because I live up to every gay stereotype where ball games are concerned. I was always too interested in the other form of ball game to be any good at throwing and catching. And please don't ever ask me to kick a ball unless you want a window broken. Or your nose. Perhaps some teeth missing? Still, there's free food and drink, and I've bought along a bottle of poppers to liven it up a bit. Poppers won't show up in any random drug test, right?

Tears Before Bedtime

I had my first big falling out with The Boyf last night. We're just coming up to our first anniversary and have never had an argument about anything before now. But I did something very stupid, and he took exception to it. He was right to. If the shoe had been on the other foot I would have kicked him squarely in the balls. More than anything I hate going to bed on an argument. Well, perhaps not more than anything. Doesn't it really wind you up when someone pushes the button on a pedestrian crossing when you've already pushed it and the "WAIT" light is one?

Anyway, I wanted to get it all ironed out before bed, but we hadn't, and this morning it all flaired up again. So now I'm at work stewing on it, and I don't know how it's going to pan out. Obviously I hope we don't split up because I love him with all my heart and want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with him, but the ball's in his court I guess.

My ex once said to me that I have a habit of destroying everything good in my life. That was a bit rich coming from him (here was a guy who'd managed to live with me for 6 years but hadn't told any family or friends that he was gay). But unfortunately he did have a point. I do have this unnerving ability to fuck up everything good that happens to me. It's almost like a subconscious part of me doesn't believe I deserve to be happy and does things to ruin any chance of happiness that comes my way. Is that called "having issues"? Anyway, I guess I'm going to have to get through my day at work and find out how this all works out when I get home tonight. I think it's going to be a long day.

No Really, I'm Busy.

A few years ago I was regularly being dragged into an office and told to "Quieten it up a bit. Ok, ALOT". I was the office giggler you see. I was the same at school of course. A teacher once said to my Mum "Your son has the strange ability to be able to get all his own work done whilst simultaneously preventing anyone else from doing theirs", or words to that effect. It was an ability I prided myself on, and I have practised it throughout my working life as well as at school.

But not so long ago I realised that it was counter-productive. (Yes, it really has taken me til the age of 35 to come to this startling conclusion). I find that delegating a task to someone and then talking at them, only to find at the end of the day they they've not completed the task leaving me to do so, isn't really helping me. You're rolling your eyes and saying "No shit!" aren't you? So over the last few months I've been trying to be quiet. And you know what? People keep telling me to stop being moody. I shouldn't really complain when almost every day someone asks "What's the matter? You're ever so quiet". After all, I had up until recently made it my life's work to be disruptive, so it's no surprise that people can't accept I'm just doing my work.

Although of course actually I'm not; I'm writing this. It's a shame there's not a job where the sole requisite is to disrupt. If anyone knows of any such career please feel free to tell me.

Last Night I Dreamt Of A Wolf

Ok, does anybody know what dreams mean? I know I'm asking an audience possibly consisting of only the odd random visitor, but if someone does stumble across my Blog and happens to know about dreams can you please tell me why I keep dreaming about wolves?

A few nights ago I had a dream where my bed was in the middle of a dense wood. I got into it to go to sleep but the woods were teaming with wolves. They didn't seem bothered by me, and neither did they try to hurt me, but one very large one came up to the bed and stood on it's hind legs and looked down on me. It looked incredibly fierce but I had the impression that it wasn't going to hurt me but that it expected me to join it. That I should become an animal aswell. That thought obviously made me panic as I woke up in a sweat.

Last night I had two different dreams both featuring wolves. The details of the first one are sketchy, but it involved a man throwing knives at me who I killed by crushing his head in some sort of garbage compactor. The wolves were chasing some way behind. In the second dream I was at home, but a home I lived in when I was a boy, and it was snowing heavily outside. I needed to let the dog out but when I did I realised that the wolves were coming, so I had to scramble outside to grab the dog and get back inside. The dog was blind. At this point I woke up, but when I went back to sleep the dream started up in exactly the place it left off. This bit's a little sketchy too, but I seem to recall my Dad telling me to get upstairs because the wolves were trying to enter the house.

These aren't the only dreams about wolves I've had recently either. I've been having them quite regularly for months. Most are violent in some form, and it varies as to whether I have to get away from the wolves or whether I am meant to run with them.

No, I've not been watching alot of horror on TV, although The Boyf did subject me to an episode of Dr Who with Colin Baker as the Dr. And no, I don't eat cheese before bed-time.

So, any thoughts? Is there a psychiatrist in the house?

Why My Friends Think I'm Weird: Pt.1

Today I would like to further my case for the use of the word "disclude". Now I know what you're gonna say, the opposite of include is exclude, and you'd be correct. However, my case for disclude centres around the fact that when you exclude something you have to physically name it. Ok, look, you're writing a list of your friends (and you're not very popular)...

Mark, John, and Andromeda (her middle name is Chelsea, natch)

The first time you write it you think "I'm going to exclude Andromeda cause she still wears shell-suits" (she comes from Chatham) and you write "Mark and John". You've made a physical decision to EXCLUDE her.

The second time you write it you just forget about Andromeda cause, well, she's instantly forgettable. Like David Sneddon. Again you write "Mark and John", the difference being that you've DISCLUDED Andromeda this time. You didn't make a conscious decision to EXCLUDE her, you just forgot to INCLUDE her. She's not been EXCLUDED, she's just not been INCLUDED.

So, in summation, EXCLUDE is when you make a conscious decision not to include something, DISCLUDE is simply when something hasn't been INCLUDED.

Phew, I'm glad you all understand it. Normally I just get stared at.

I'm still trying to work out my definitions for "disinclude" and "uninclude". "Undiscluded" is easy though - it's when you've accidentally discluded someone and then remember to include them.

Oh, and whilst we're on the subject, one of my friends (not Andromeda) would like me to mention the word "comfortability". It's a way of measuring how comfortable something is. You can decide on a comfortability scale between yourselves.

Mums and Tums

I'm feeling a bit grotty today. Er, again. (Sorry, I'll try not to make a habit of it). I'm normally one of those people who carries infections and spreads them around without feeling very ill myself. But today I feel, well, vague. Fuzzy headed. And my tummy feels a bit wobbly. Inside, I mean. The outside always feels wobbly.

I'm looking forward to just getting home and seeing The Boyf, now he's back from visiting his Mum. He must be so pleased to be home. To say that his Mum is overly dramatic is to seriously understate it. I thought those people only existed in hammy stage-plays, but apparently not; I've been witness to her wailing.

Last Christmas I bought The Boyf a remote controlled Dalek, which we took with us as a distraction when visiting his Mum on Boxing Day. As appears par for the course, The Boyf and his Mum fell out within 2 minutes of our arrival (due to her telling us not to touch each other in her home). After a couple of hours of me trying to make polite conversation with The Boyf's Step-Dad, whilst simultaneously trying to drown out the noise of The Boyf and his Mother arguing upstairs, we were treated to the sudden entry of said Mother pulling at her hair, with a face not disimilar to Munch's "The Scream". On seeing the Dalek on the floor his Mother shrieked "Oh good! I need to be exterminated!" and fled towards the kitchen, still holding handfuls of hair.

You see now why I don't always visit with him.