Right, well.

Am having a bit of a camera block. I know where it is. I obviously know how it works. But for some reason I loathe the idea of using it. Weird huh? What this means is that I have finished my finest pair of socks yet in hand dyed red and yellow stripes but I can't photograph them. But here is an artistic impression:

Good huh? They are actually prettier than this but obviously I am being too gormless to do any better.

Well I'm in a stinker of a mood this morning. The great medication cut-down has been going really well but this weekend we have an added dose of PMT. And Mr Pooch, bless his smelly stinky feet, did come in at some ungodly hour last night and insist on waking me up to tell me the results of his man-to-man talk with Joe. And the thing is, he did tell me. Then he told me again. Then again. And then he seemed to think I hadn't quite got it so he old me again just in case. Then he summarised a couple of times.

Dude.

I wouldn't have minded, much, except a lot of it to my PMT saturated brain appeared to be along the lines of 'bad byrne'. This is all to do with the Louise-Joe thing. Apparently I have been egging them on too much. This is despite Pooch making it the main topic of conversation whenever we see each other (when Pooch and I see each other - all a bit weird really). In their drunken conflab last night they appear to have started out with "I've committed myself too early" from Joe with an occasional chorus of "uh huh uh huh" from Pooch to "She's the best, I want to boff her asap" with a chorus of "boop boop de boop" from a probably much drunker Pooch.

An example:
Pooch: Why byrne....why.....why.....why byrne?
Byrne: Why what you drunken fool?
Pooch: Why are you meeting Louise tomorrow?
Byrne: We've got things to talk about.
Pooch: No byrne. No.
Byrne: Yes
Pooch: No byrne. Byrne. Byrne! You need to leave them to it. You mustn't interfere.
Byrne: She asked me to go down you rancid idiot.
Pooch: No byrne. Poor Byrne. Poor Pooch.
Byrne: So why did you and Joe go out together tonight (leaving me on my own to eat tinned soup)? Wasn't it to talk about the two of them?
Pooch: But Byrne (at this point I accidentally nutted him on the nose with the back of my head while turning out of the inhalation line of his smokey arsed jumper and he then fell off the side of the bed where he was perched. He made a massive squawking noise and I turned on the light to see what the damage was, expecting blood and possibly brains. This caused more squawking and it turned out all that was wrong with him is that he didn't want the light on.)
Pooch (once more on the bed): It's not the same.
Byrne: Ok, fair enough (making hand gestures under the cover of darkness indicating my feelings on this amazing example of logic at its worst). Are you going to go to sleep now?
Pooch: I love you Byrne
Byrne: You'll love me even more when I'm well rested. Sleep time!
Pooch: Ok, but (and launches into one more repetition)

Dude.

Anyway, what else? Work has gone psycho with the most stressful day due to be either Monday or Tuesday this week. Basically if "it" doesn't happen on Monday "it" will happen on Tuesday. And if "it" doesn't happen at all then the repurcussions will start from Tuesday. And if "it" does happen "it" will directly impact on about 90% of my work and if "it" doesn't "it" will impact on 100% of my work. Nice huh?

This is byrne, 8.38 on a sunday morning with her second chocolate digestive already eaten signing off.