I feel ill. I mean, I feel ill even for me. I'm nauseous every evening, headaches every second day, eyes hurt inside and out, brains fuzzy, temp is up and down and I feel like I'm getting a chest infection (even though I have no cold symptoms).

I_feel_like_shit.

Adam is being an ass, Heather called me a bitch for the hundredth time tonight, the dog has dreadful flatulence and the whole world is set to "busy".

But I have finally got the bike rack mounted on the car and the bikes all taped up to stop them getting scratched. It's a big, red, solid bugger; I'm tempted to write "Go on. I dare ya" on it but it'd be just my luck that some don't-ever-dare-me freak just like me will not be able to help themself. But I pity any dumb fuck who rear ends me now.

I took the signwriting off my car today, now we are incognito for the first time in over 4 years. The domain is long gone, the phone number has changed and I feel like being a little less visible, for a while. Naffy now looks like half a hundred other blue Primeras lurking around town, except for the bright red double bike carrier on the back.

Cos, I give up.

If I'm going to feel this ill all over, I may as well be back on the chemo.

Collectives revisited:
I followed Shari down the driveway this afternoon; one Primera behind another and I came to the conclusion that if you can have a band of gorillas, you can most certainly have a parade of Primeras. Well, Shari and I can, anyway.

Reading: nothing.
Listening to: NOBODY. NOT LISTENING.
Watched: Kath and Kim. (Oh God, shoot me).

The kids plane tickets are booked for December 12 - 25. I wonder, if I paid D heaps, would she cash their return ticket in and just leave them there? God knows, they whine like Australians, I'm sure they'll fit right in. (PMSL sorry Gramyre)