Wriggle (or, 'Cletus the Foetus' as Alex has named it) was having a major wriggly last night. I think maybe she likes Gordon Ramsey. Or, perhaps, I get excited by how gorgeous all Gordon Ramsey's food looks and Wriggle senses my excitement and gets excited too, even though she can't see the TV. Oooh, really though; have a look at the F Word website; he made beef wellington, which looked gorgeous, and a trifle, which also looked gorgeous. And everything he ever makes looks gorgeous. Hang on, I just need to wipe up that puddle of drool before someone slips in it.
SOMEBODY HIRE ME GORDON RAMSEY I WANT HIM TO FEED ME FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.
Actually, maybe my excitement over Gordon Ramseys food could explain why I've been having pregnancy induced sex dreams featuring Gordon Ramsey. Jamie Oliver just doesn't do it for me...he may have a strangely oversized tongue (useful), but his recipes aren't orgasmic enough.
Although, nothing explains why I had a dream where my best mate had a penis and no breasts and no testicles. (Not that I think she usually has testicles. Just, where there's the dangly sausage giblet bit you expect the spherical wrinkly giblet bits.) And nothing explains the dream where I shagged the beardy old lecturer who's obsessed with Freud and is most likely gay. AND (there's more), nothing can explain the nightmare where I was chased by a galvanised steel watering can...and was actually terrified.