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This time last week my tummy was gushingly ridding itself of evil parasites by any means possible, all involving lots of yucky fluid type substances. Towards the back end of the week {pun so very obviously intended} and beyond, my tummy was insisting that it keep everything I ate safely tucked up inside. I need this! it whined and gurgled. This morning, at twenty past six, the time I have to leave the house to walk to Bus Stop so that I can catch Bus, my tummy happily declared, I want a poo! Really Tummy? You choose this moment to wave goodbye to Connie St Pation? Well, I want, doesn't get. So you can grumble and moan and strop like a toddler, but you'll still have to wait. Nope, no buts. She seems to have settled now. She's sitting with a scowl on her face on the kerb, drawing menacing pictures on the pavement with chalk. I want to tell her that if the wind changes her face will stay that way, but now I'm safely ensconced on Bus it's probably best to not rock the boat. And in other news? We failed miserably at Eurovision despite having {what I thought was} a strong, point-worthy song. What. A. Surprise. Honestly, I don't know why we bother anymore. We're the kid that nobody likes, the one who always gets picked last, just because the other kids need somebody to hate. Still, at least we didn't get boo'd like Russia. Swings and roundabouts, eh.