Pitiful whimpers (and writer’s slouch)

My back kinda feels like it’s broken into a million pieces. The chiropractor fleeced me this morning. According to this my chronic pain is because I’m a writer.  More probably it’s due to the 18 pairs of high heels I own. I HAVE A PROBLEM AND I NEED TO BE STOPPED. I was going to post pictures of all my beautiful shoes just to demonstrate how bad the problem is, but the battery on my camera ran out while I was taking the photos. And I’m pretty sure none of you love my shoes as much as I do.

Dad says he’s going to carve a sign to go around my neck: “Do not sell this girl shoes.” Even then I’m sure my pitiful whimpers would win some vapid salesgirl over.

In other news, we had a vistor from New York’s Brooklyn Museum at the National Library today, whose presence resulted in a meeting of minds of comms/web people from the arts/culture sector. Fantastic. I now not only understand Twitter, I have an account! Tweet! (I still think it’s a stupid name though. “what are you doing?” “tweeting.” I mean, come on.) Thanks heaps Shelley!

I’ve joined Niall’s Italiano Club, which should be fun. I speak not a word of Italian, but I love Italian food, so apparently that gets me in. Yum. Niall reckons he’s going to do a PhD in Italian and he wants me to call him Doctor Niall but I won’t.

I’ve triumphantly finished Running in the Family. Some beautiful quotes which I will share with you when I have the book about my person.

A few reminders why I love Icanhascheezburger




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