Its at this time of year I think about cosmetic surgery, you know the kind of thing, should I have four or five stone of fat sucked from my stomach? Are my ears too big? Are my tits too small? The answer is always yes.

Liposuction, there’s a strange thing. Who first thought, I know what, my wife is looking s bit podgy, I think I will stick a tube in her and suck out all the fat? I could be wrong but I bet it was a man that invented liposuction.
The one thing I do know is, no matter how much I dream I am not brave enough to go under the knife.

Talking of knives, I could take one to my husband. You guessed it; the kitchen still looks like down town Baghdad. I told him this morning if he does not get his finger out I am divorcing him.

Another dream I couldn’t go through with.

See you next time

If you think that this London girl has something to offer the world of blogging that is funny, refreshing, and intellectually stimulating, sod off. I have not put this blog up to entertain anyone. This blog is the therapy my psychoanalyst recommended I use to stop me from killing my husband. You would think with a name like Plumber he would be a good one, plumber that is. Well he’s not, the mans an idiot.

My lump of a husband destroyed a brand new £18,000 kitchen because he was to tight to buy a £3 stopcock. I kid you not. I mean, you could not make it up. (Emma lights another cigarette and downs another whisky).

I am not going to go into the story now, I don’t think my blood pressure could take it. Bastaaaaard

Doors hanging off, Italian marble work tops smashed, oak panels warped, English granite floor tiles cracked. Bastaaaaard

And do you know what he said to me after we discovered the kitchen carnage? “It could have been worse”

“It could have been worse.” I said, ” It could have been worse could it darling” He knew he was right when my fist smashed into his face. Bastaaaaard

Anyway that is enough therapy for one day, I’m off to get another bottle of whisky.