Nothing that tea and bikkies can't cure

I'm sorry about the radio silence - I've been in one of those moods where you don't feel like doing anything. Not that there's much to report. Last weekend went along the lines of that joke in Annie Hall that Woody Allen attributes to Freud by way of Groucho Marx. "I don't want to be part of any club that wants to have me as a member."

So I hung out with me, myself... and Cousin, who kindly put up with my antics to take me to the beach on Sunday. There, I got tanned and Cousin got a little less so courtesy of my 30 SPF burka sunscreen. Apparently, after five years here she won't tan unless she's soaped up in baby oil for that extra crispy taste.

God knows why I'm out of sorts, because the issue went to the printers on time and the Apple people have promised me a new CD drive on my warranty. I have absolutely no right to indulge in sulking. I think maybe it's the recent cold spell we've had with ensuing head colds all round. You think it's summer, and then the rain comes back to bite your nose off.

Maybe it's also the pressure of the impending 9 month bikini season that is taking its toll. Nothing reminds you of the defects of your genetic make-up like the prospect of having to bare your limbs for months on end. In England, you can get away with being a sickly shade of green under your skinny jeans. Here, there is no such respite.

And the competition is fierce. This is the promised land of stay-at-home trophy wives. Even having bought into draconian gym routines I'm still way behind some of the botoxed fifty-somethings that seem to live in my Virgin Active, lifting 40 kgs where I can manage 20 just to spite me. May their 0 cal smoothies be laced with anthrax. Or that powdered protein that body builders take to bulk up. Moohawhawhaw!