I just wanted to tell you........

.and now on Twitter I can. But you know, it's a weird thing - if I tweet someone who is famous in some way I feel quite nervous and embarrassed. It's akin to the feeling I would have if I saw a famous actor in a restaurant say and wanted to ask for an autograph. Actually not a good example because that's something I would never do - firstly because I hate invading someone else's privacy, also because I would be too shy and finally because I think autographs are...er, I don't know.I'm even quite shy of writing on fan pages on FB, it doesn't fit too well with me. I don't want to be a nuisance and although I know that these people probably never look at their FB pages and probably read only 1% of their tweets anyway, I still get that uncomfortable apologetic feeling.

I really like to think that if I was stuck in a lift with a celebrity or ended up sitting next to them on a plane that I wouldn't say 'Oh my god I cannot believe it's you' I remember reading in Michael Jackson's autobiography years ago how this used to amuse him and he would say something like '..why not, I have to be somewhere in the world, why not here?'. I can relate to that. Of course in my dreams there would be a witty, informative entertaining conversation but knowing myself profoundly I suspect there would just be silence on my part. I'm not a great twitterer for the same reason that I'm not a really active blogger or FBooker, I often lack commitment and quite often lack courage. I feel terrible if I don't give everyone my attention and although I know that probably doesn't matter to them, it racks me with guilt. I once had a virtual chihauha ( yeah I know that's spelled wrong and look at me going with americanised 'spelled') on FB and taking care of it worried me so much I had to give it up. Boh.

It occurs to me that outside of my previous work obligations, I have never actually had a celebrity encounter of the close kind.. Now that George Clooney is dating Elisabetta Canalis, it is actually possible that he could turn up in Alghero at some point - I hope I don't end up bumping into him anywhere - what the hell would I say?
And I especially hope Stef wouldn't be with me, because I can tell you, he wouldn't be backward in coming forward oh no.

Our car passed it's Mot again this week - it must be about 18 years old by now and it just flies through -I swear it's going to outlive us and damnit, that chocolate brown Fiat 500 with the cream interior is destined to remain just a dream.

Unless we win the lotto of course but then Stef says he's getting a Ferrari.But that's entirely another story.

6.00pm and not a child in the house washed.....

So. I see that I haven't been here since May which even shocked me. I suppose that between twittering away on Facebook and twittering away on...er Twitter, and writing bits and bobs under my Polyvore sets and all the rest of it, I felt that I had been fairly active. Then a contact on PV mentioned how much she liked my blog and I was consumed by a wave of guilt, having turned into one of those people who keeps a link on her page to something ancient and wrinkly. Must do better in future.

You know, seven years down the line from giving up work and slinking off into the dubious, bureaucracy ridden ikea-less sunsets of hinterland Sardinia, I still haven't been able to structure my time in any manageable and useful way. And like anything unstructured and formless, time slips and slithers and steals away like the thief in the night that it is. Good intentions are not something I have ever lacked. I always intended having one of those composite wardrobes or whatever they're called, outfits that mix and match and take you anywhere, one good pair of shoes, one great bag, the essential this, the classic that. If you buy me a Kelly bag, that would be a grand opener. Take a look in my DVD library and the proof that I always intended devoting an hour every morning to Yoga and Pilates is right there. I have watched those DVD's. Once. Watched, note.

And yes, at least once a week I have this internal convo that goes like this...
OK - mornings, get up really early, get washing on, do housework, no I mean do proper housework because wiping over a work top in between fags and coffee does not count, which will leave afternoons free for .....actually opening those paints and unwrapping that canvas, using those bagfuls of paper and stufffff for the collages, and getting started on that dolls house I want to build, plus an hour of brisk twittering and facebook, plus one Polyvore set a day if possible. Then later in the afternoon when the light isn't so good, some reading. Two hours a week to get to grips with the Italian conditional and really I must learn Dante's Inferno and at least make a start on I Promissi Sposi. The evening will then be dedicated to spending at least half an hour marvelling at how amongst the wealth of 110 channels that are available there isn't one thing I want to watch and having to re-watch Sense and Sensibility on DVD for the 100th time ( or Titanic if I have been a particularly shitty wife today and need to make amends to himself).

But see, by the time I've had that internal convo, I'm exhausted and need to go to Mindjolt games to recharge my batteries. Which could mean at least two hours when himself could come into the room and tell me he is leaving me, a body could fall past the window or the flat could burn to the ground around me and I wouldn't even notice aymi.

Well fiddle dee dee, I'll think about it tomorrow, because tomorrow is another day and all that and I can't go back to Tara anyway because tonight there is...X Factor! But that's another story entirely.