Heat-Induced Torpor

I'm sitting at home in front of the large screen tv over which Joe Vitale is telling me some stuff. Dadda, who succumbed to diarrhoea and then giddiness, is asleep in his room. I'm alternately answering emails, editing some pages, checking my facebook, and the like.

I think I need to write another article but although I write the most beautiful articles in my head, the pipe is choked when I apply fingers to keyboard. Will have to get over that...ahhh me.

It's hot. Very, very, very hot. The kind of heat that induces a torpor. So I'm in a torpor at the moment...so whatever you read after this, bear in mind I was in a heat-induced torpor. (I just like saying torpor)

Jackie has already left for England.

I seem to have picked up some expensive stuff over the way in the past month. Like my new Guy Laroche wallet. And my new Dolce Gabanna shades (present from Jackie). And my Birkenstocks (OK, I know they're not supposed to be expensive, but they are here).

So it was with some trepidation that I opened my credit card bill yesterday. The trepidation was warranted. There must be some mistake I stammered, as I went through each item and actually whipped out my cool phone to calculate (not trusting the bank, because what do they know about numbers) the total.

How on God's green earth had I spent so much?

It's the lure of that little silver card. You just whip it out, sign the dotted line and forget about it. Until of course, the lady at the crystal shop tells you, that sorry miss, your card got some problem lar. And your sister cocks an inquiring eyebrow at you: "Exceeded your limit, huh?"

So of course, I decide to pay up and tighten my belt for the rest of the month. I make plans to buy loafs of bread and sandwich meat and maybe some lettuce to serve as lunches for the week. Of course this is when the company decides to play silly buggers and not pay us.

I ask our head of HR about it and she profers a languid smile. "Maybe end of next week."

It figures.