Argh! Apparently, there is, on your computer keyboard, a combination of keys you can accidentally press whilst trying to do something else (I suspect involving 'Alt' in some way) which will shut down your Blogger window, and lose the really long post you've just spent ages writing, and haven't saved. Whatever it is, I just found it. Bugger.

Whoa. Long day at work. Spent mostly making sure that the recruitment project I've been slaving over (well, project managing, so principally co-ordinating everyone else's slaving) for the last few weeks - namely this - finally went live on the web.

But, as of 7pm tonight, it has, albeit with one or two minor tweaks still needed. And just as well really, since the ads for it start appearing tomorrow. Just don't tell me if you spot any mistakes...

I LOVE my new boots. They're big. They're black. They're go-go dancer boots. They're sex on, well, legs. These boots weren't made for walking. These boots have got one thing on their mind and they know how to get it.

Yep, gotta love the new boots.

Well you already know far, far too much about who I am. So sign my brand spanking new guestbook and fill me in on who you are. Feel free to hurl abuse, vitriol, or even nice stuff, like solicitations and job offers. I'm all ears. Which makes typing rather difficult.

And still they come - this from Nathan:

'Memory's a bit vague hey? You were putting on a bit of a floor show up on that stage bending over! Hahaha.'

I think this answers my hope-I-didn't-do-anything-really-embarrassing query. The wrong way.

Communication received in the last few hours:

'Hey you drug fucked mary - how's the head? When I left you were in seventh heaven, shaking your ass on stage...' (kind words from the boyfriend)

'I can't believe what you were doing up there last night - I didn't know that was physically possible. Uri Geller would have been proud...' (Rick)

'Want to go and get those leather shorts after work on Wednesday?' (Phil, of course)

Good grief. What have I done? What have I agreed to? Help!

And exactly how did we find ourselves piling into Byron's flat, a mere fifty yards or so from the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, pints in hand, watching Michael do his laundry while Nick served up a Sunday roast for six? All very strange. And sorry, Byron!

Perhaps something to do with compensating for - shock - not going out on Saturday night. Well, at least, only in an uncharacteristically civilised manner, a birthday meal at Bertorelli's for Rick, with all the usual suspects, plus my boss and her girlfriend. Who, if they were men, we would have to hate for being so impossibly attractive and intelligent and funny and obviously-happy-together. But as they're not, that's ok. Sickeningly happy lesbians we can handle.

Activity so far today: three cups of coffee, a bacon roll, surfing Internet, exchanging text messages with Phil. I really think I'm working too hard...

'Mum, there's a cow in my bedroom!'
'Yes, dear..'
'No, really there is!!'

Back at work (boo!) but feeling much better (yay!), and currently in middle of one big post-gym endorphine rush. Still, much effort needed to make up for lost time in that respect - it's Love Muscle again next week, and frankly, there's not very much of the intended Halloween costume. Might require a lot of breathing in...

More in a bit - kinda frantic today, things to be, people to do...

Ok, I take it back about the daytime TV.

This from 'This Morning', sadly now devoid of the legendary Richard and Judy, currently replaced by John Leslie and some impossibly wooden old dear whose sole purpose seems to be to hold a cup of tea in as many different positions as possible. It gets to the phone-in quiz:

Impossibly-wooden-old-dear: 'What's the capital of France?'
Utter-bimbo-contestant: 'Belgium!'
Impossibly-wooden-old-dear: '..er, France..?'
Utter-bimbo-contestant: 'Oh! Er, pass.'

And she still won six thousand pounds or so.