My God, I don't think I've ever had such a deleterious effect on a person's sanity as I did this weekend by not letting Chris smoke in my house. Check the London post on his blog (4th August) for the full awful tale of woe.
Speaking of insanity, my cleaning mania continues apace - earlier today, I tried to clean cat hairs from a white sofa with some sellotape (in the vain hope that it make make me feel better for not knowing how to remove the chocolate Flake cupcake streaks), then took incriminating photographs of the unhelpful bloody hairy cat-like creature that rolled all over the sellotape in a spiteful cat fashion.
My cleaning mania isn't helped by a broken washing-machine. When I say broken, I mean dirty: I boiled a red chenille rug that didn't want to die, and it's risen from the grave to turn everything I own into another red chenille rug... or at least a grimy pink, fluff covered cousin.
Today's solution was to pour half a pint of bleach into the drum, and wash nothing at ninety degrees heat. There's a disturbing burning smell emanating right now.
It's too bloody hot, and I can't cope with the heat. Thirty three degrees yesterday, when I had the hangover from hell. It's going to get hotter and more humid all week, apparently breaking all records. I'm only leaving the house to go to cinemas with air-con, in protest.