It has been bought to my attention that my recent posts have been a little snarky.

Friends have messaged me asking if I am ok?  (Well, I say friend, more like an acquaintance. To be honest, I consider her reading this blog more than a little bit stalky, I mean I don’t want to meet you in Lidl and share this stuff, – that’s why I write it here.)

Still, if my tone has been a little passive-aggressive, well what can I say? I have no memory, I have no sleep, I can’t see, or indeed find a bloody thing. Sneezing has become an extreme sport – I risk putting my back out or wetting myself or most excitingly both. I can’t stop peeing, even when I don’t even need a wee.

I have hair in all the wrong places and the hair in the right places has turned into straw – I literally have Wurzel Gummidge hair (photo inc. for anyone, not Gen X)

My boobs, worried that my waist isn’t thickening enough on their own, have decided to just slide on down there, like a really heavy belly button warmer. We are way past plunge bra and the only way I’m gonna get into a balconette is if I use literal scaffolding. I’d have more luck popping them into a carrier bag and tying the handles behind my neck, getting these girls above waist height. And if I do ever get some sleep I awake being smothered by my own boobs.

So yes, I may be tense. Though that could be muscle spasms from the sneezing or permanently holding my non-existent pelvic floor so I’m not sitting in a puddle of pee.

In other news, I realised how incredibly susceptible to advertising I have become. While binge-watching The Great Pottery Throw Down, I was bombarded with adverts, – the remote was at the other end of the sofa and I couldn’t roll my body upright without disturbing the carefully arranged covers/boobs.

Lying there I had the irresistible urge to buy a McDonald’s, join Weightwatchers, get a new kitchen and join a dating site so I could find true love. My husband wasn’t happy – he’d be gutted if he missed out on a McDonald’s.

I don’t even like Mcdonald’s but that image of a juicy burger gets me every time. If I could be arsed to get up from the sofa I’d be there, hopefully being stopped by the police on the way, who’d give me a giant bag of Haribo’s for afters. (other gummy sweets are available)

I need to be really careful not to do my online shopping while watching or the basket is full of junk food that I have to delete at 3 in the morning.  Luckily I’m awake then!

I am obsessed with Pottery Throw Down. It would be too much of a cliché to take up pottery as a middle-aged woman. Not that I’m judging, just that my current boob situation may be a literal barrier and getting a nipple caught on a throwing wheel is not going to be anyone’s idea of fun.

And anyway, I don’t actually have to do the pottery – I’m an expert already. I know all the terms, slip, bulbosity, Clarice Cliff. I can tell just by looking that bad boy is gonna crack in the kiln. And you’re gonna need more than glaze to get that back together. I even know what a mustard well is – go on, go on, ask me!

That’s the great thing about these programs – all the fun of learning a new hobby without any of the expense or mess.

And this one comes with a double entendre every 4 minutes, what with ‘butting up the rim’, ‘pulling off the slack’, and  ‘admirable cracks’. Informatively we are told to ‘not play with it until it’s hard’, and ‘don’t try to touch it up until it’s wet enough’. Never mind the positively obscene ‘pulling off handles.’ It’s pure filth.

Look, don’t judge. I’m going through a transition. It’s like puberty, but with more door slamming.  At the end of this, I will be reborn as a beautiful butterfly, though I wouldn’t hold your breath.

In reality, I am gonna be just as grumpy as I ever was, only wearing bigger pants, sniggering at dirty jokes and mainlining jelly sweets while silently wetting myself.

So not much change at all.