Saturday 29 March 2008

What Not to Do on Your First Date

I’ve been dating. This is a hugely confusing experience. The truth is that I’ve never dated before. It, along with many other experiences, like South America, the 1950s and enormous willies, is something I’ve only ever see on television, read about in the doctor’s waiting room or fantasised about.

I need to say here re the fantasy thing that I am very worried about men, the male population and people with willies. I saw a program on BBC3 about penises. Apparently 78.235% of men think their willie is too small. And I just need to say STOP IT your willie is fine. And be happy – 70% of women don’t even have G-spots, and of those that had them, many have been stolen by people from the future. We don’t fantasise about big willies, we read Mills and Boon (and possibly the Karma Sutra) (pop up edition) (yes this exists) (willie size is not mentioned).

I’ve been dating. This is a hugely confusing experience. Obviously this lack of dating thing has very little to do with a lack of partners thing. It just seems that my previous methods of attracting the male of the species, cunning ventures like simply hanging out with them and/or propositioning them on MSN, has taught me nothing about dating complete strangers.

This is what I’ve learnt so far in terms of essential dating do’s and don’ts:

Don’t propose marriage on the first date.
Do wear clothes.
Don’t tell them about your blog that talks about G-spots and penis size.
Do arrive at the correct place.
Don’t tell them your G-spot was stolen by a person from the future.
Do arrive on the right day.
Don’t tell them you are interested in sex.
Do arrive.
Don’t tell them you are not interested in sex.
Do pretend you are interesting.
Don’t tell them you need to sleep with them NOW.
Do keep your big fat mouth shut.
Don’t wear the big, long, white dress with excess skirts.
Look demure (they may believe you).

Should you have failed in many of the above then there is one simple solution. Call your date. Apologise profusely for how someone cunningly impersonating you (your evil twin sister probably) kidnapped you, chloroformed you, hid you in the boot of your car and turned up on the date. This totally explains how they got the wrong time, place and totally misunderstood the clothing conventions. As well as the whole sex thing.

Ask, beg, plead, cajole and if necessary (which it will be) bribe them to dismiss the whole sorry episode from their mind and meet you again. That you will be a completely new person (not your evil twin sister). And normal.

Please?

Thursday 27 March 2008

Soulmates – Fact of Fiction?

There has been a great deal of discussion (well I talked about it briefly) as to whether such a thing as a soulmate exists.

As the leading proponent of how to use science to solve all relationship conundrums I will attempt to answer this difficult question that has been puzzling philosophers, physicists, agony aunts and readers of the Guardian for the last however many millennia using only an apple, the power of thought and some abstruse logic.

First let us define our terms:
Soulmate = ‘the one and only other half of one's soul, for which all souls are driven to find and join.’ Or, to broaden the definition slightly, ‘a soul with whom another soul gets along with ok.’

Exist = ‘has its being’ or, looking more deeply into the definition, ‘I think/worry/feel hugely insecure because I can’t find my soulmate therefore I am’.

So, the concept is, that out there, in the ether (some debate as to whether the ether exists but we will come to that another day) there is a person who, essentially, is your other half, who completes you, who you might survive the next twenty years with without doing each other severe damage.

The ether is a big place. Very much larger than Wales.

But don’t despair, or despair any more than you already are. Because soulmates do exist. This has been proved by a very clever man called Bohr. We are not holding either of those three facts against him.

This is what he discovered:

Even though objects may be spatially separated they are quantumly linked. When one spins one way the other spins the other and visa versa.
This is called Quantum Entanglement.
Quantums are actually quanta.
Because there’s more than one of them.
Because they are entangled.
Quanta are very small.
Everything is made of quanta.
It is not the same as quorn.
Therefore you, I, we, the Queen, Mary Poppins and one are all made of quanta.
Therefore we are entangled.
Soulmates exist.

Like it or not.

Wednesday 26 March 2008

Every Girl’s Dream

Good news. I’ve finally, after many years and days of searching, found someone who wants to be with me. Someone, even better, of the male gender.

This is what happened:

The Physicist had broken the very most important part of her (or rather ex-Beloved’s but please mention none of this to him) car. The cigarette lighter. No, she doesn’t smoke. It’s where her iPod adapter plugs in. She cannot drive now. It’s fairly tragic.

I was in the aforementioned vehicle trying to save the situation by suggesting the use of matches when I heard a voice.

‘Ceci’ it said.

Blue eyes, curly blond hair, Wellington boots. He was even holding out a flower to me. The boy next door. Every girl’s dream. He is a man of few words but what does say holds great significance in an almost philosophical way. I was, frankly, spellbound. Our conversation went thus:

Every girl’s dream: Ceci!
Me: Ben! (for I knew his name)
Every girl’s dream: Flower (he handed me the flower)
Me: Thank you (polite as ever despite my racing heart)
Every girl’s dream: House (he pointed in the direction of my door, I got the message)
Me: Ok (easy to the last)

He held out his hand. I held out my hand. We walked slowly to the house. The sun was setting, the birds were singing, it was hailing slightly.

Every girl’s dream: Door (obviously an expert on architecture)
Me: Yes
We enter the house.
Every girl’s dream: Cat (obviously an expert on animals)
Me: Yes
Every girl’s dream: Girl (obviously an expert on girls)
Me: Yes (obviously an expert on conversation).

We spent many happy moments together mostly admiring the frogs on his Wellington boots and discussing the merits of the local JCB (whom, because he’s an expert on diggers, he called ‘Bob’).

He even cried when it was time for him to go home.

Saturday 22 March 2008

How I Didn’t Exist but Then Became One

I have been practicing using the first person singular pronoun. In conversation. As is appropriate for single people to use.

‘I’ is not my favourite. Frankly I prefer ‘We’. I (note the use of the first person singular pronoun) hope that I won’t be an I for very long and will become a We but in the interim I (note the use of the first person singular pronoun) am practicing.

This is what happened:

I met a person who didn’t know me.

This, for a start, is dangerous ground. People who know me tend to know me and take me with several bushels of salt, a teaspoon of pepper and assorted ground condiments. They know at what point to spit me out.

I met a person who didn’t know me. And tried to tell them about myself. It turned out that I didn’t exist. I was the first person plural - We. I was not an independent entity.

It’s all very well and good not being an independent entity when one actually is We. It is totally different if I’m not We. Which I’m not.

I am considering simply bluffing and claiming to be the Queen. She’s a little older than me and has a very different attitude to handbags but I, sorry We, think we can pull it off.

We are actually quite well qualified to be the Queen as we are one of the last people left on earth to regularly use the gender neutral impersonal pronoun ‘One’. This apparently is a sign of poshness. So at least I can be sure that David Beckham fancies me.

Life has suddenly become so much simpler. No longer do we need to wrestle with the big question of ‘Who am I?’ and instead ask ‘Who is one?’ And since we are now the Queen we have a fixed and well-documented life which any person who doesn’t know us might discover on the internet, in a plethora of magazines, or by asking a handy Beefeater.

One has been practicing using the gender neutral impersonal pronoun. One thinks therefore one is. One exists.

One is, at last, fucking sorted.

Wednesday 19 March 2008

How Never to Innuendo Again

I’ve been updating my Google iPage. As you may recall last time I did this, ah, I can’t recall, still, I did something.

This time I felt it was time to become more intellectual, better read and generally cerebral.

Gone is the fortune cookie who was always telling me that I was popular/brilliant/gorgeous. Despite moments of being on a low ebb, flattery from bakery products just wasn’t working for me.

Gone is the horoscope that told me what to do and think as doing and thinking seemed to just work by itself.

Gone are the girlie snowflakes, butterflies and leaves that floated across my screen in a disorientating confusing confusion of seasons.

This is what I’ve put there now:
Place of the day to see before you die
Scientific American headlines
New Scientist headlines
Einstein Quote of the day
How to of the day
National Geographic picture of the day
And
The weather

This is all going to lead me to be a better and cleverer person. I can read all this stuff and be inspired to write grown-up blog posts that are no longer thinly disguised metaphors for sex.

This is what I learnt today:
Before you die you should go to Jamaica and lie on a beach (possibly naked).
How to swallow a pill.
Scientists are designing prosthetics for men.
Fizzy water powered ‘super’ geysers on Mars
How to tell if an sausage is bad.
Birds gotta fly
The sun is shining
Levitating joystick improves feedback
There will soon be wormholes in Geneva
And
Size matters.

I believe my readers and I are about to lead richer, more intellectual, less innuendoed and generally more fulfilled lives.

Tuesday 18 March 2008

How Not to Solve Another Great Science Mystery

I am on a crusade to link science with life and life with science (you probably noticed that). Thus, using only some common sense, some imagination and a small carrot I have solved yet another of life’s great mysteries. Physicists and blog writers have been pondering this question for many a passing moment.

This is the question:

Does Dark Matter Exist?

This is what happened:

One day man looked up into the night skies. Woman was busy doing useful stuff like feeding babies, growing stuff, inventing crochet and reading philosophy. Man noticed something. That the universe was holding itself together. Man believed in gravity (mostly because they had proved it through the phenomena of falling balls).

The problem was that there didn’t seem to be enough stuff to make enough gravity to hold the universe together. So, and here’s the brilliant part, they invented more stuff. But they couldn’t see the stuff. So they called it Dark Matter. There is still a deal of debate amongst physicists as to whether Dark Matter actually even exists.

This is the digression:

The problem with physicists (and I know because I just made scrambled eggs for one) is that they seldom consult the ordinary woman on the street (or in the kitchen cooking scrambled eggs). Common sense is not a prevailing attribute of this breed of scientist. My physicist, for example, can do some very difficult sums, write a lot of letters and symbols on pieces of paper and strew the aforementioned pieces of paper around the house, she can even do a back somersault on a four inch beam, but ask her to discover the use of dusters, pour water from a jug just into a glass and not onto the table, or make scrambled eggs, and she is completely flummoxed.

These are the answers:

So, Dark Matter – does it exist?
Yes, most definitely. Think coal, chocolate, the insides of Wellington boots and the works of Sartre.

Does Dark Matter hold the universe together? –
No. If it did then
1. We would see it if we used one of those very stylish torches advertised in Sunday supplements that shine a very long way.
2. We wouldn’t understand a word the universe was saying.
and
3. The universe would smell quite different, a bit like warm feet pudding.


Then, if not Dark Matter, what exactly is holding the universe together?

And this is where physicists are really going to kick themselves for never having asked the woman on the street, in the kitchen or me before.

The answer is so blindingly obvious. It is the same thing that holds everything else together, is the answer, is all you need, makes the world go round and is a triumph of imagination over intelligence. Love.

After all, gravity, essentially, is the mutual attraction of two bodies.


Next week: Does Dark Matter? The sex lives of the stars.

Sunday 16 March 2008

How to Tell if Someone Fancies You – The Reprise

Yes, we are back on the BIG question. The question that more people find my blog through than any other question ever asked of Google. The question that supersedes the ‘Life the Universe and Everything’ question, the question that is more important than ‘Did God or Douglas Adams Make the World?’ the question that may even outrank ‘Where did I Leave My Glasses?’:

‘How Can I Tell if Someone Fancies Me?’

Since now 1,589,235 folk have asked this question of me I feel it my moral duty to try and answer it in the most up to date and scientific way possible. Using Quantum Physics.

Let us first consider first principles:

It is understood that in the realms of Quantum Physics that there are ‘observables’. These are –

Energy:
Does the target of your question move? If he/she has life then there is obviously hope. If they are moving towards you in a slow and controlled manner then there is definitely hope (as long as they don’t miss and continue to travel in a slow and controlled manner out of the nearest door/window/porthole). If they are moving away from you at a sufficient spend to cause a noticeable Doppler shift then you might want to realign your sights a tad.

Position:
If the target person is either horizontal or vertical and at a distance (anything over six inches is considered a distance in Quantum terms) from you then that bodes a little ill. If they are horizontal or vertical and in direct contact that’s a good sign, especially if they are naked. If your target person varies in angle between zero degrees and 360 degrees then they are probably drunk and you need to repeat the experiment on a more auspicious day.

Momentum:
Does your target person have momentum? If yes then be careful. If no then go home.

All the above can be either ‘continuous’ or ‘discreet’. The more discreet they are obviously the more difficult it is to judge just the extent of the Energy, Position and Momentum. Discretion, although the better part of valour, is in this case a pain in the arse. If you are experiencing a pain in the arse (and that’s not your sort of thing) then my advice is give up the question in question because even if they do fancy you it is all going to go horribly wrong with possible chaffing and visits to chemists.

Another problem that we in the Quantum Physics world (I’ve just awarded myself a higher degree in Quantum Physics on the simple principal that if my daughter is to have one, and the well know truism ‘Mother knows best’ holds true it is therefore completely possible, nay, probable that I too should have a pretentious qualification in what is, let’s face it, not so much a science as an elaborate guessing game) is that everything, including one’s fate, one’s target fanciable person, and the whereabouts of one’s glasses are essentially unpredictable and random.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, how, although on the surface Quantum Physics sounds unlikely, when one delves into it it transpires to be remarkably applicable to everyday life.

So, with that in mind, why not emulate the famous Quantum Thought Experiment that so many cats have enjoyed to discover just whether or not he/she fancies you?

This is how to do it:

Imagine your target person in a box. Obviously it is better to use a larger box than Mr Schrodinger favoured as you are putting a person in the box and not your best feline friend. Or if you are going down the cat route there are a lot easier ways to make a cat fancy you than a person. Use cat food.

Next understand the very important bit, the Quantum Physicsy bit. At this exact moment, and all the time that the box is shut and you are not peeping in any way, the person simultaneously fancies you and doesn’t fancy you. And is also simultaneously dead and alive.

Next open the box.

All will be revealed.

These are the possibilities:

1. Person is dead and did fancy you
2. Person is dead and didn’t fancy you
3. Person is alive and doesn’t fancy you
4. Person is alive and does fancy you.

As any amateur mathematician and us people with higher degrees in Quantum Physics can observe there is only a one in four chance of a favourable outcome.

I have a better idea. Which, for reasons that are quite inexplicable, Mr Schrodinger seems to have overlooked: Don’t open the box. Then it is absolutely certain that the person is alive and fancies you. As all the possibilities are still possible.

Should you have accidentally opened the box, drilled a small hole to look through or inadvertently left your webcam in there don’t worry. According to Mr Everett (not Kenny, Hugh) everything actually happens. So should the object of your desire shun you, break your heart and generally not cooperate with your well-planned fantasies then you have the consolation of knowing that somewhere, out there, in a parallel universe, all your dearest hopes dreams and desires are being fulfilled. You just don’t happen to be there.

Saturday 15 March 2008

Who Not to Marry

I have fallen out with Mr Delchem. His Flapper Flush Valve (with Lever) has caused a great deal of strife and could lead to the immanent collapse of civilisation as we know it. Not a great loss I know, but some might miss it.

It was the ‘with Lever’ bit that started the whole sorry mess.

This is what happened:

Having satisfied myself that the cistern had stopped leaking from the many orifices that cisterns enjoy leaking from I decided to replace the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws. This is where I discovered that Mr Delchem was not quite what he seemed. The Lever he was so very proud of had no capacity to lengthen. Not an unknown problem for men like Mr Delchem. But, (and perhaps this is a testament to my general attractiveness) a problem that I had never come across before.

I could not, therefore, replace the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws without impairing the effectiveness of Mr Delchem’s Lever. I’m sure you will agree that this was a serious problem. But not as serious as what came next:

I decided there was nothing for it but to cut a hole in the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws to allow the free movement or Mr Delchem’s Lever.

For this I needed my hacksaw.
For this I needed the light that illuminated the small room in which I keep all my tools for just this sort of serious situation.
The lightbulb broke.
The light fitting turned out to be a crumbling mess probably first installed in the latter part of the fifteenth century.
I set forth to my favoured DIY emporium for the appropriate replacement.
I broke down.
And caused a traffic jam.

Normally, a small traffic jam on the A470 leading into Cardiff is but a twinge in the otherwise cheerful side of civilisation.

Not today. Today all of the world was on its way into Cardiff to watch our gallant boys with the large thighs and moth-eaten ears beat the world in that thing they do with the ball they never quite managed to work out how to make into a sphere.

Civilisation, essentially, was caused a nasty case of acute appendicitis. I blame Mr Delchem. And his Lever.

He has yet to respond to my proposal of marriage and perhaps it is all for the best.

Friday 14 March 2008

How Not to Flush

I’ve fitted a Delchem Flapper Flush Valve. Life is full of new experiences.

This is what happened:

It was Saturday. Generally a day of rejoicing jollity and joy for I had retrieved the Physicist and all her worldly goods from the clutches of academia to be once more clutched to the bosom of her loving parent.

(a word of advice to loving parents – don’t clutch your Physicists to your bosom in front of the assembled Oxford masses – it embarrasses them and has a dishevelling effect on both your outfits)

However, whilst I was enjoying the joys of the M4 and the mass movement of the undergraduate masses an evil force was at work in my house. That very evening things began to take on a life of their own. Or rather give up a life of their own.
The remote control had lost control.
The lights in the sitting room no longer lit.
The DVD player refused to play.
The TV screen took on a suspicious shade of green.
And, worse, the toilet refused to flush.

Now, being a woman of resourceful resource I can cope without TV, DVD and anything that involves a capital V (including HMV, Henry V and VD) but, after a while, a non-flushing toilet becomes uncomfortable, smelly and Anthea wouldn’t approve.

Now, being a woman of resourceful resource I set about the thrilling task of mending the toilet. This is what happened:

To access the cistern I had to remove-
22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling
Attached by 66 screws.
2 lengths of skirting board
Attached by 14 nails.
The carpet
Attached by magic.
And
Most of the skin on my fingers.

This is what I discovered-
The flushing mechanism was broken.

Now, being a woman of resourceful resource I continued on my quest and removed –
6 litres of water
A ball cock (yes that was the highlight)
3 pipes
A flushing mechanism.

This is what I discovered-
The flushing mechanism was broken.

I showed the flushing mechanism that was broken to the physicist. She agreed. Broken. Those Oxbridge educations are certainly outstanding.

But never fear, all is almost well. We went to the shop and bought a wonderful new invention in toilet flushery – The Delchem Flapper Flush Valve.

With a name like that who could fail? Only ten hours later I flushed excitedly. I intend to contact Mr Delchem and propose as soon as I have reassembled the bathroom.

Wednesday 5 March 2008

How Not to Treat a Wormhole – or The Future in G-spots

I have solved yet another great mystery of science.

The Theys of the New Scientist are sometimes a tad blinkered. Or possibly they don’t read the New Scientist. Yet I have discovered that with the right interpretation, analytical technique and slightly skewed reading there are many more answers enclosed in this bijou publication than it might first appear.

This is what happened:

It was reported that Geneva was to be the beginning of time. To be more precise 2008 Geneva was to be the beginning of time. Because soon, in the very heart of this majestic, pretentious and expensive city, they are going to make a wormhole. The first ever wormhole here on earth. Exciting eh?

Wormholes are handy for a number of reasons –
For worms to live in
For the quick transport of worms from one place to another
For baby worms to hang out
For teenage worms to hide in for a smoke
And
For time travel.

So, all time travellers will be able now (given that construction of the aforementioned wormhole goes according to schedule and budget) be able to visit 2008 Geneva.

Here comes the interesting bit – What would a traveller from the future want to take away as a souvenir from 2008 Geneva? Chocolate? Swiss Army Knives? The spurty fountain that for some reason lives in the lake? Possibly. Yet possibly not. For surely the travellers from a distant time would be after that very elixir of life, not slightly overly milky chocolate, not small red items to break one’s fingernails on, not even ejaculating lakes (although almost). No, any sensible traveller from the future would be looking for what we are all (or me anyway) are looking for – the perfect orgasm.

Here comes the really clever bit - a more careful reading of the New Scientist has revealed that in fact the time travellers have already been and removed the souvenirs. And why no one except me has noticed this is quite inexplicable. In that very edition, probably on the next page, was the now infamous article about the missing G-spots.

That is where they all went. And this is backed up totally by scientific and anecdotal evidence – It has been shown that 70% of G-spots are missing. When my G-spot was stolen I was actually in Geneva. AND the man who stole my G-spot has also gone missing – back to the future obviously.

Monday 3 March 2008

My True Identity Revealed

I have discovered my true identity. This is groundbreaking stuff.

Much research, meditation, trips to India, ashramming, pursuing of religious fervour and hiring of Life Coaches goes on in the world for people to discover their true identity. I used none of the aforementioned methods. I had a revelatory moment. In the changing room of the gym.

All the pieces of my disparate personality began to make sense. Things like:

My fondness for large bags and umbrellas
Why snapping my fingers is so effective
My knack of bursting into song at any given moment
My winning ways with children
Why I am revered by penguins
How I can understand fake cockney accents
My general ability to defeat gravity
The cut of my coat
My charming cloche hat
Why sometimes my feet might turn outward
Why I am practically perfect

This is what happened:
I was in the gym changing rooms preparing to leave. I glanced at myself in the mirror. I am the spitting image of Mary Poppins. I am Mary Poppins.

I said to the Lawyer – ‘Look! See there!’ I pointed at the mirror, ‘I am Mary Poppins!’

She said ‘I know, but I didn’t like to mention it.’

Sunday 2 March 2008

How Not to Talk to the Birds – Or Mother’s Day Revisited

Today was Mother’s Day. I expect you noticed. I am a mother so it was my day.

The sun was shining, God was in her usual abode, all was as right in the world as it ever is.

I was conducting a scientific experiment. For it is the duty of us mothers to discover things and thus pass wisdom unto our offspring, the world, the scientific community in general and anyone who would care to listen (that anyone is yet to be discovered).

It was an experiment in linguistics and biology. To settle a question long questioned (well since the other night). A question that effects us all in our day-to-day dealings with the natural world.

This was the question:

Can we talk to birds?

The sub-questions were –

If so, should we talk in English, Welsh or Bird? (we take as a given that I am addressing Welsh Birds) (Obviously if I was addressing birds of another denomination the corresponding denominative would apply)

And should we find ourselves actually communicating, what are the favourite topics that birds like to discuss?

And why?

And wherefore?

Never mind the whys and wherefores we must also ask is talking to birds morally correct.

This is what happened:

I went into the garden to find a bird. I detected a singular lack of feathered creatures. Almost simultaneously I noticed a plethora of furred friends. I am a scientist. I can recognise cause and effect when they are purring around my ankles.

I sent Cause and Effect back indoors with a sharp word or two about interfering with cutting edge science.

I sat and tweeted and said ‘hello birds’ and ‘bora da Robin/Blue Tit/Sparrow/etc’ (I didn’t know the Welsh for ‘bird’).

And this is what I discovered:

Birds never speak English.


If birds speak Welsh they do it in a heavy Bird accent.


They like to talk about strange women who think they are birds.


They like to talk about strange women who think they are birds because they are bored of talking about the bloody cat problem.


I never answered the wherefore problem. No one ever has.


And finally yes, it is morally correct to talk to birds as long as your six-year-old neighbour doesn’t see you. Because when she does see you it leads her to believe that you are very brave and should now rescue her from a plague of wasps (3) that are infesting her play house.

Today was Mother’s Day. I expect you noticed us talking to the birds.

Saturday 1 March 2008

How Not to Celebrate Saint David’s Day

Today was St David’s Day. The Welsh Day.

Yesterday someone asked me ‘How are you going to celebrate St David’s Day?’

This (as you can imagine) threw me into a bit of a quandary.

In days of yore I’d have celebrated this most auspicious of days by dressing my children up in strange costumes made of old shawls, lacy doilies and antimacassars and then sending them to school thus attired. Much to their shame as the other children had proper costumes from ASDA and didn’t understand antimacassars.

Truth be told no one actually understands antimacassars.

The children, however, were not home. Or children. Or the least bit interested in the mysteries of antimacassars as they appear to have little relevance to either physics or the law (ah – the folly of youth, they’ll learn).

So, what to do? I hit upon an idea. A massive celebration meal that included Everything.

Or at least everything Welsh.

This is what happened:

First I invited a Welsh Family.

Then I mixed together chopped leeks, some spoonfuls of seaweed, a number of ripe daffs, half a loaf of Bara Brith, sixteen tons of coal and a tin of Catatonia.

Whilst this lot was gently simmering I popped down to the bottom of the garden to slay a dragon (being a tad short of handy knights at the mo I had to do it myself). But the dragon was quite sexy in a clawed sort of way so instead of slaying him I invited him to dinner.

My guests (The Jones Family) all were very polite. Tom asked ‘What’s new pussycat?’ (I think he fancied me). Aled was walking on air (I think he fancied me). Gryf commented on my fine mouldings (I think he fancied me). Only Catherine-Zeta seemed a bit upset. ‘What, no antimacassars?’ she whined.

Luckily the dragon ate her (I think he fancied me) (or it could have been the antimacassar I was wearing under my old shawl).