The sun came out on Sunday and most of the UK stood staring at the sky wondering what the bright spot was (some people started screaming about aliens and invasion and stuff, but their cries were drowned out by a crescendo of lawnmowers). Like three million other people, Hubs and I decided to do some gardening.

First, a trip to B&Q, where Hubs and I parted company, he to the manly power tools and me to the garden section. I was just lugging an eight foot bamboo plant into the trolley when Hubs reappeared and hissed, "Ye Gods, woman, put down that pot and step away from the plants!" He can be very firm and butch sometimes, which I admire, but in garden centres and bookshops its like water off a duck's back.

I didn't get the bamboo though, we wouldn't have got it in the car.

We were in the garden for eight hours straight, bending and shifting pots and weeding and painting everything in sight. I'm not a good painter. I'm messy. I don't mean to be, but I'm impatient to start the job and to finish it, so I'm never prepared. Consequently there was paint all over me, the garden table, every door handle in the house, all over the bathroom, and on floors inside and out.

By the time I'd painted the rocking chair and every item of wooden furniture we have - three garden benches seems a bit excessive and makes our patio look like a rest home for benches - I looked like a living work of art. I mean, the subtle clashing of colours, the bottle green and tar-black of the rocker mixed with the startling orange of 15 gallons of creosote was just inspiring. And the redness of my skin after I'd showered in turps was also impressive, perfectly depicting the Woman With Brush look I was after.

Sadly, the birds won't go on the feeder now because it's a different colour. You can actually hear them squawking 'Blimey, that's orange!' (cedar red actually, Hubs picked it, he's colour blind so probably traffic-light red doesn't blend terribly well with the environment).

Afterwards, when I crawled back into the house, the newly-acquired step machine and I glared at each other like baddies in a dusty western. One half of my brain cried, 'Gimme 100', whilst the other half screamed, 'You can bugger right off!'

There have been some complaints about a beer advertising campaign, which I actually thought was rather funny. Three people claimed it was sexist, apparently. Three people speaking on behalf of the rest of us (who got the joke) stopped the promotion!

Don't you sometimes wonder if the world has gone completely mad? I'm all for not offending people, but really, humour is taken much too seriously these days. The PC-ists have been given free rein, run and hide.

I mean, does my husband, who's colour blind, complain about Dulux paint adverts because he feels 'offended' that they're displaying colours he can't see.? He does not.

Do I, as an anosmiac (no sense of smell), feel utterly appalled at perfume adverts or food shows where they go 'oh that smells nice'? I do not.

I am, however, desperately offended by people who decide on my behalf what is or isn't considered suitable for public consumption.

Oooh I feel better now I've got that off my paint-splattered, sunburned chest.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday, regardless of bodily pain.
Brummie Blogs: Real life with a Brummie accent - be afraid, be very afraid.
Twitter: Life in 140 characters or less.

Hello, good evening, and welcome to this Sunday Mercury blog page. As Brummie Blog's spokesperson, I have been advised to tell you-

[Speak up, they can't hear you!]

Coughs I've been advised to tell you that Brummie Broad is unable to post her regular Tuesday blog due to... what did you say it was?

[Well I was leaning towards insanity, but you said that wouldn't wash, so just come up with something plausible.]

Brummie Broad is unable to post her regular Tuesday blog because she was abducted by aliens.

Awkward silence

Again.

[That's the best you could come up with? Seriously, that was the only plausible thing that popped into your head, alien abduction?]

Hey, I'm being put on the spot here, I didn't want to do this in the first place.

[Just carry on and stick to the script will you, tell them... They can't see me can they? Push that curtain back a bit, I don't want them to know I'm here.]

Look, people staring at this screen, she just hasn't done it, okay? She hasn't had time, she's been busy gallivanting around during the Easter weekend and gardening and all that kind of shit-

[Hold on, are you allowed to say 'shit' on the Sunday Mercury website? I'm not sure you can use that word, I'll have the editor sending me terse emails if you're not careful.]

Well what do you want me to say, eh?

[Don't speak to me directly, they'll notice. Turn around!]

I don't want to do this now.

[Too late, they're all looking at you. Go on!]

The berluddy moany cow-

[Excuse me?]

-says she can't come today cos she's been busy-

[Er, hang on a sec, 'moany cow'?]

-but she says she's got an excuse note from her mom and... Have you really got a note from your mom?

[No, of course not, all Marmee gave me was a plastic bag of Cheerios, not quite sure why. But forget that, what's with this 'moany cow' bit, we never discussed saying that.]

I'm improvising.

[Well don't, stick to the script.]

There's a script?

[Yes, there, in your pocket!]

Rustle of paper Okay, Brummie Broad wishes it to be known that she leads an extraordinarily busy life... busy life? You're a typist aren't you?

[Transcriber, thank you very much.]

So all you do is type all day, every day.

[What's your point?]

Well, typing isn't exactly 'busy' is it

[What would you know? Get on with it, and make it snappy, I'm supposed to be burning something for tea in a minute.]

Well she's been busy typing and having a nervous breakdown over some tax figure sh-

[No!]

-stuff, so she's not here, and I'm supposed to make some excuse about it.

[And not doing a very good job to be honest]

It's difficult with you barking into my ear!

[Hey, I could have got Kevin Spacey to do this you know.]

In your dreams.

[Call yourself a spokesperson? My dog could do a better job of it.]

Right, that's it, I'm off.

[No, wait a minute, you haven't said the bit about my lunch at the Ivy with er Hugh Jackman, or my date with-]

You're making this up aren't you.

[No.]

You didn't really have lunch at the Ivy with Hugh Jackman did you.

[I might have done.]

But you didn't.

[No.]

Okay, is that it?

[Just tell them I'll be back here soon.]

She'll be back soon.

[As soon as I can fit something into my hectic schedule.]

As soon as she can fit it into her hectic typing schedule.

[Thanks.]

Can I go now?

[Yeah].

Good.

Brummie Broad: Usually here on a Tuesday, unless she gets confused with long weekends and stuff.
Brummie Blogs: Real life with a Brummie accent - be afraid, be very afraid.
Twitter: There too, if only to maintain some contact with the outside world.

The news has been a bit interesting recently hasn't it. Its not all doom and gloom, there are bright spots.

Take Jacqui Smith for example. Tsk, naughty girl, having it away with the fairies instead of her accountant, or whoever fixes up her figures - and fixed they certainly are. Not only does she earn a six figure salary, she also receives £157,000 for expenses. Uh huh, £157,000 just for expenses. I don't think I earn that much in my entire lifetime [counts on fingers, gets confused, gives up], pretty sure I don't.

You gotta ask yourself, if your boss said, "Oi, you can claim £157,000 in expenses on top of yer salary," wouldn't you stick everything from bath plugs to second house allowance on it? Sure you would. But even we, the commoners, the real people who don't have our head in the clouds or up our own bums, would think twice about claiming for porn films - because we couldn't stand to think of some person in Finance giggling about it and telling the whole company.

Apparently it wasn't Jacqui's fault. Oh no, no, no, Hubby did it, and Hubby was forced to make a cringingly embarrassing apology to reporters. My hubby would have simply roared, "Hey, I f***ed up, I paid it back, now p*ss off." But then, he's not a politician's husband, he's a Yorkshireman and he's got quite a gob on him.

In other news, Obama arrived on our shores. Go, baby, go! Did you see the G20 photographs? No? Snigger. You have to remind yourself that these people run our world, and then you have to remind yourself again when you watch the Queen telling them off for being rowdy:

And while we're on the subject of royalty and the Rowdy Bunch, if there was one person guaranteed to lift their foot right off the floor and wedge it straight into their mouth without a moment's hesitation, it's our dear Prince Philip. He's a hoot isn't he. I bet old Queenie cringes in terrified anticipation every time she hears him draw breath.

Apparently, the only thing the G20 summit could agree on is that the teeny-tiny French president had a hot wife.

And finally, I caught a glimpse of Jade Goody's funeral procession, although I couldn't quite understand why the whole 'event' was televised. Whilst I applaud the fact that she brought smear tests to the fore, I thought her life was perfectly encapsulated by the flowers that spelled out GRAN DAUGHTER [sic].

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: Hanging out there rest of time.
Brumblog on Twitter: Spewing forth there too.

Let's talk about Jordon, aka Katie Price. Nothing against her personally, good luck to her I say, but does she have to be in the news All The Berluddy Time? You can't walk passed a newsstand without seeing her face in this week's headlines. How much crisis can one person endure in their life?

"Katie Price has to be helped home at 5am after wild night out in supershort orange dress." "Katie and Peter to Split." "Katie and Peter Back Together Again." "Katie Pregnant." She's everywhere, doing everything, all the time.

In an effort to try and understand this phenomenon, I fed some misinformation to the Sunday Mercury news desk to see what would happen, and this is what they came up with:

Brummie Broad in Early Morning Scare. Brummie Broad was heard shouting by neighbours in the early hours of this morning. One neighbour, who wishes to remain anonymous, said she heard phrases like 'You want that work completed by what berluddy time?' and 'SWEETCORN TRANSCRIPTS! AGAIN!'

"It was like something from a horror movie," said the unnamed neighbour, "I thought someone was being murdered the way she was carrying on. It quite upset my Tiddles."

Brummie Broad wouldn't answer the door when we called round to confirm the disturbance, but shouted through the letterbox, "I'm busy! Bog off!"

Brummie Broad in Gas Explosion. "Well," said a close personal friend of Brummie Broad, "because she has no sense of smell, she turned on the gas grill but it didn't light, only she didn't know this. Unsure if the kitchen was full of gas, knowing only that she was hungry and wanted toast, she draped a damp bath towel over her head and stood as far back from the cooker as she could before pressing the ignition button. Fortunately there was no explosion, which makes a change, and she got her toast in the end." No one was hurt in the incident.

Brummie Broad Splits With Hubs. "Oh come on," sighed Brummie Broad, when we rang to confirm the story, "You'll be saying I'm dating Brad Pitt next. Tsk."

Brummie Broad dating Brad Pitt and David Duchovny. Brummie Broad today denied rumours that she's seeing both Brad Pitt and David Duchovny at the same time. "Really?" Brummie Broad drawled when we contacted her, "I'm a self-employed tax slave, tell me when, exactly, am I supposed to have the time?"

Later, when pressed, Brummie Broad was heard to ask, "Do you have Brad and David's telephone numbers then?"

Brummie Broad in Homicide Investigation. Police today were investigating an apparent murder at the home of Brummie Broad in Birmingham. They were called when neighbours spotted suspicious marks on the driveway.

After being interviewed by Scotland Yard detectives (men in uniform, weyhey!), Brummie Broad made a statement to waiting reporters: "There has been no murder and I am not involved in any homicide investigation. Police found nothing but the white outline of a human body painted on my driveway near the front door. The words NO SALESMEN were printed underneath. It is not a crime scene, it's a warning to canvassers."

P.S: Heat and Hello magazines, I'm available for photographs at any time (but let me know beforehand so I can vac up a bit).

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday, though sanity can't always be guaranteed.
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time, usually, if I'm not typing up berluddy sweetcorn transcripts.
Twitter: Angst sometimes coughed up there, occasionally.

Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to apologise for the chronic lack of anything in this week's Brummie Broad blog.

This is not due to lethargy or laziness (well, not much anyway), its just that... well, I've been a bit busy lately, what with life and work and everything.

I mean, typing is quite exhausting you know, moving all 10 fingers at the same time, and the commute from the bedroom to the study next door can be a bit stressful what with the dog's penchant (yeah, penchant) for lying in doorways.

Urgent work, deadlines, transcribing an endless series of Really Long Interviews about tinned vegetables (beyond boring), a weekend away in Wales where gasp shock horror it didn't rain, and decorating, its all taken its toll. Frankly, I'm knackered.

Plus I've given up smoking. Yes, I have given up smoking and not killed anybody... yet. I have given up smoking and Hubs, who has also given up smoking but doesn't appear to have any homicidal tendencies, has put the number of the local divorce lawyer on speed-dial, thus forcing me to behave like a (relatively) normal human bean.

So basically, like the White Rabbit in some book where nobody smoked, I haven't had time to do anything except curse cigarette companies and chew on pillows.

More wild rantings from the smoke-free zone to follow shortly.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday, depending how bad the nicotine shakes get.
Brummie Blogs: Not there either at the moment.
Twitter: There because 140 characters or less is just about doable in my current state.

I've been watching Come Dine With Me a lot lately. I don't know why, I don't even like cooking... or rather, cooking doesn't like me.

A couple of weeks ago, inspired by CDWM, I decided to 'cook something different'. I'd been threatening to do this for quite a while, but Hubs usually managed to talk me out of it (sometimes by simply bursting into tears). This time I was determined to create a culinary feast of epic proportions.

I'd found a couple of recipes on the internet and followed the instructions To The Letter. I spent two whole hours of my life chopping and measuring and weighing and stirring, and ended up with something that resembled shite on a plate.

When I mentioned this incident on my blog, a kind person sent me an mega-simple recipe that even I couldn't muck up. Ha, yeah, okay. I replied to kind person thus:

"I've decided to stick to what I know best, which is jars and frozen things, stuff I don't actually have to make myself. I'm well into Uncle Ben's sauces at the moment. Last night I tossed a jar into a casserole (not the actual jar, I'm not that daft), threw in some pasta, frozen peas and corn, and lobbed it into the oven. Then we went to the pub (yay!). When we got back an hour later, amazingly it wasn't burnt to a crisp like most of my cooking. Edible meal! Hubs could hardly believe it, I could tell he wanted to phone people about it and maybe put a declaration in the newspaper or something."

But even I, charcoal-expert extraordinaire, can ruin a simple pasta dish. The other night, in my haste to get in the bath with Frank Skinner - great sentence, if only it were true - my only thought was to make sure the oven was lit. It's a gas cooker, probably not a wise appliance for somebody who can't smell but I like to live life on the edge. It has an electric ignition, but I also use one of those long clicky things that sparks like a flame thrower, just to make sure the Gas Is Lit. I'm very big on making sure the Gas Is Lit.

So I made sure the oven was lit and threw in the casserole. Then, having endured many gas balls crackling across the kitchen, I opened the door, checked the gas was lit, then closed the door again. Repeat several times until absolutely sure, without a shadow of a doubt, that the Gas Is Most Definitely Lit.

Jumped in bath with Frank (wooohoooo). An hour later, hauled my crumpled carcass out and went to check on din-dins.

Gas still lit, that's good. Casserole still cold, that's bad.

One hour on gas mark ½ does not a meal make.

"Dinner done?" Hubs asked, with that smile he only uses when trying to look happy about me cooking.

"About an hour," I said.

"I thought it only took an hour," he said, forcing the smile to stay on his face despite all the questions racing through his mind (like 'Hope its vaguely edible this time' or 'Its gonna be coal casserole again, I just know it').

"Forgot to put the cooker on a gas mark," I shrugged casually.

It's not actually my fault I can't cook. It's not just because I have no sense of smell, it's my mother, she can't cook either (I hope she never reads this!). It's clearly a genetic thang.

I have memories/nightmares from my childhood of my mother's cooking. She once made toffee apples, got us all excited about them as we waited for them to 'set'. When my sister and I were finally allowed into the kitchen, we found 12 apples on a tray with sticks in them. No toffee. The toffee had slipped off and languished stickily in the tray. We were chipping away at it for weeks.

Dad, a keen gardener, had a glut of strawberries one year. Mom thought she'd make jam with them. A big cooking session went on in the kitchen. It was like a scene from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, all hissing steam and wooden spoons.

That strawberry jam lasted forever. Throughout my entire childhood there was this endless supply of dark red liquid that had the consistency and taste of slightly lumpy washing up liquid. We found it in our sandwiches, we found it in our bowls of ice cream, we found it on crackers and biscuits.

I still can't eat strawberry jam.

Mom once read a recipe on the side of a bran cereal box, and we endured malt loaf (made from bran cereal) for decades afterwards, and none of us even like it.

We didn't have bowls of rice pudding, we had slices on a tea plate (with a dollup of home-made jam on top).

During a bread strike mom decided to make her own loaves. They were like bricks, you could barely get a knife through them. We tried to soften it in soup, but it sank to the bottom of bowls like a rock.

I still shudder in horror whenever I think about mom's home-made bread, hacked from the loaf and spread with gloops of home-made strawberry jam. I reckon it put me off cooking for life.

That's my excuse anyway.

P.S. Love ya, Marmee. x

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday, culinary disasters allowing.
Brummie Blogs: Hanging out there avoiding the kitchen rest of time.
Twitter: Come join the madness!

I did some typing for my sister a couple of weeks ago. I obviously wouldn't accept payment for it, so she said she'd treat me to a massage.

Last week, a massage at some training college, her treat. I've never actually had a massage before and didn't really know what to expect.

I didn't like it. Nope, didn't like it at all, not one little bit.

Not only did I have to get undressed in front of some 12 year old student in what looked like a dark hospital A&E cubicle, I had to pretend I was enjoying it but not make any sounds that might be construed as 'sex noises'. It was very difficult, not least of all because I was rigid with discomfort at my semi-nakedness - it must have been like trying to massage a corpse.

The 12 year old (nice enough, but you know, she was 12!) started on my legs first, and as I gazed 'relaxed but not aroused' at the ceiling, a single clear thought entered my head; when was the last time I'd shaved my legs? While she struggled with the 'upwards' strokes, almost gasping at the effort, I figured it must have been at least a week, maybe two, and that she was probably having quite a 'rough' time down there.

Stomach area was next. Yeah, okay, you're 12, what do you know about barely-middle-age spread and home-working on a laptop and winter wobbly-bits, eh? Nothing (spit). In she went, kneading the stomach like dough, her little fingers almost disappearing up to the knuckles (I'm exaggerating of course, I'm as slim as a sylph in real life, whatever a sylph is, must look it up).

She then did something rather unexpected. She pushed a thumb into my bellybutton. Now whilst most people wouldn't find anything wrong in this, I have a Pathological Fear about bellybuttons, my bellybutton in particular - I don't want it touched, I certainly don't want it prodded by anything (argh!) and I'd much rather you just forget it even existed and stay well away.

So whilst I was squirming on the bed considering whether to (a) violently swipe her hand away as instinct dictated, or (b) jump up and run, she said, "No pulse."

"Pardon?" I squeaked (desperately trying not to scream Get your berluddy fingers out of my berluddy bellybutton, girl!)

"No pulse," she said again, "In your bellybutton. That's good."

I lifted my head to look at her, plunged up to her elbows into my navel, and said, "I'd consider not having a pulse to be a bad thing. Do you have a resuscitation team here?"

She continued to lightly pulverise the top 70 layers of flesh. "This is a really hard part," she said, "I don't like doing this movement."

The movement consisted of moving her hands up my stomach, sideways across my stomach, down the other side of my stomach, and across the bottom. A square-shape manoeuvre which did Absolutely Nothing for me. In fact, the only thing I'd felt so far was an overwhelming desire to leave.

She moved above my head, pulled down my bra straps and did some quite substantial kneading and pulling and prodding of my neck and shoulders. Several times I actually wondered if she'd rendered me paralysed. The pain was quite significant.

"Turn over," she said after a while.

I wasn't sure I could, but managed to haul my carcass like a pig on a spit, and she went to town on my back.

I'm not sure what it was she did exactly, but every now and again she'd prod the side of my spine with what felt like a knitting needle, and I involuntarily cried out 'UH!' Not 'UH!' as in 'that feels so good, do it to me some more, baby', more 'UH!' like I'd just been stabbed and didn't know how to react yet. Seriously, at least six sharp objects were plunged deep into my body, its was the weirdest feeling.

"Get dressed when you're ready," she suddenly said, stopping.

I dragged myself off that table like a woman just coming round from a major surgical operation, maybe spinal readjustment or a heart-bypass. My legs trembled as I lifted them into my jeans, and I did think about asking her to remove the knitting needles from my back before I left or if they were complementary.

"That was great," the mouth lied profusely, "I really enjoyed that, thanks."

She led me out into the reception area and said that because I'd had to wait a few minutes there would be no charge. Great, I thought.

Sis reappeared and said her massage was 'on the house' too, only she still wanted to pay. Oh, okay then.

We went up to the reception desk. "Did you have the aromatherapy massage?" another 12 year old asked me. I looked at her, shrugged, and said, "I don't know, it could have been."

"My sister has no sense of smell," said Sis, and suspicious glances abounded.

Sis, it turned out, only had huge-denomination notes in her purse, and the receptionist, of course, had no change. So I paid. For both. Including a tip comprised entirely of 20p pieces for each masseur.

My treat, apparently.

["Let me take you to the pub," Hubs said to me tonight, "My treat, bring money."]

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday, or as soon as the knitting needles are removed.
Brummie Blogs: Stiffly hanging out there rest of time.

I did something recently that will make Middle 'Computer Guru' Son terribly proud of me. I went to PC World and bought a wireless mouse and keyboard for the desktop computer.

I'm not sure of the exact moment when my children stopped viewing me as the font of all knowledge and wisdom and started treating me with 'infinite patience', but MS wasn't very impressed with my rollerball mouse last time he came to patch up my technical equipment; "An antique," he called it.

So, a wired mouse is now an antique is it? My, how things have changed. In my day (cue violins ... hey, violins, wake up and play some music ... I don't know, how about an adagio? You don't have the sheet music? No, William Tell won't do, I want something soft and soothing ... yes, that's it, the Hovis advert, perfect) ... where was I? Oh yes, back in Ye Olden Days we didn't have computers or digital music, we had state of the art Grundig tape players that we used to record the Top 40 chart off Radio One every Sunday night (and the DJ would always start talking before it finished).

We had a telephone number that you could ring from a public phone box (no such thing as mobile phones, or house phones come to that ... we were poor in those days ... play louder, violins) to listen to music. Dial a Disc it was called. Ah, memories. I'd huddle in a phonebox with a couple of giggling friends and we'd spend a whole 2d (that's old money) to listen to The Rubettes sing Sugar Baby Love. I was really young then of course, barely walking in fact.

I remember my mom setting jelly in a bath full of cold water because we didn't have a fridge. I remember lining up on the living room carpet with dad and sister, picking bits up off the carpet because we didn't have a vacuum cleaner. I remember dad's box of television valves for the black and white televisions set, and mom's mascara that she'd spit on and soften with a little brush.

I remember the absolute joy of being given a 'posh' box of writing stationery that I never used (probably still have it in the loft somewhere). I remember playing tennis outside with my mates until it got dark, pretending we were Billy Jean King or Chrissie Evert, being told off by the neighbours for bouncing our ball on the side of their house, and pleading with our mothers to stay out for just ten more minutes even though it was pitch black (and they let us!).

We had space hoppers!

I remember the horror I felt as a 'girl with a lot of horsey penfriends' when postage stamps went up to two and a half old pence. I remember my mom's uber-mini dresses and pointed stiletto shoes and backcombed hair (that took her ages). I remember dad letting me ride his Honda C90 on the roads when I was 14 years old.

No text messages to boyfriends in those days, we used our mates ("Go and ask him if he fancies me ... go on!"). Huge headphones complete with miles of wire attached to boxed stereo systems was cutting edge technology. We didn't have Playstations or Wiis, we had Etch a Sketch and painting-by-numbers, chalk to draw endless games on pavements and skipping ropes and clackers and string tricks and jackstones.

We ran around and got burning lungs but didn't stop, went for all-day adventures in the park on our bikes, formed the outlines of houses from newly cut grass, and hunted for furry caterpillars underneath window ledges (there were always loads). We knew how to have fun in those days, oh yeah.

So a wireless mouse is still a wondrous thing to someone who didn't grow up with CDs and DVDs and PCs.

[Okay, violins, you can stop playing now. I SAID YOU CAN STOP...oh good].

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday (unless I expire from Ye Olde Age)
Brummie Blogs: Hanging out there chewing gum rest of time.

Twitter's a funny little thing isn't it, whatever 'thing' it might be, haven't actually figured that bit out yet. "What are you doing?" in 140 characters or less that can be posted from your PC, mobile phone or Blackberry onto the internet for all the world to see.

Some people use it like texting ("On train to London, weather damp and grey" yawn), but its weird when 'famous' people like Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher do it... and believe me, it doesn't get any weirder than Mr and Mrs Kutcher:

FOLLOWER: Why the f**k am I even following Mrs Kutcher? Unfollows.
MRS KUTCHER (Demi Moore): Wow did I do something to offend you? (why does she even care, she doesn't know this person).
FOLLOWER (now has her attention and feels important): ahhh no you didn't offend me i just really have no idea why i'm following you i didn't mean any disrespect sorry.
FOLLOWER: now i feel bad i was just being aggy.
FOLLOWER: i unfollowed u becuz i didn't think u talk back or whatever but u do also i don't really know any of your movies so ifeltweird
FOLLOWER: *follows mrskutcher again* ahh twitter you tear me up inside. lol
MRS KUTCHER: love the twitter mind set of positivity it continually restores my faith in humanity!

Even freakier, Mr and Mrs Kutcher have encouraged their Kabbalah teacher onto Twitter ("I'd follow this guy to the end of the earth," says Ashton... does Kabbalah believe in a flat earth then?)

The Kabbalah couple are clearly in need of counselling of some sort judging from their quite frequent Twittering:

ASHTON: Spiritual study time. I'm going to go crush my ego for a couple hours cu L8r.
MRS KUTCHER: Me too baby
ASHTON: Apparently I have all my planets in Aries. Which means I need to work on listening more. What? (What indeed, clearly needs to work on which planet he's actually on first).
MRS KUTCHER: Always focus on the positive but never run from the negative it just might be the gift you have been needing to change your life! (Uh huh, run that by me again?)
ASHTON: I also need to work on my stubborn pattern behavior.
MRS KUTCHER: You and me both!

Lily Allen (10,000 'followers' and only 2 updates, what's all that about then?) and Perez Hilton have apparently been 'fighting' on Twitter (go figure) and Lily has now told reporters that she's 'blocked' Perez (sharp intake of breath). Is that the cyber equivalent of being given the cold shoulder in public? Is Perez even now sobbing with shame in some dark room?

People feel that they need to keep 'followers' updated on their every movement, producing a constant 'real-time' stream of garbage and even apologising when they haven't Twittered for a while (but hey, they've been busy, or sleeping). They say goodnight and good morning to all their followers as if we're waiting to see if they're up yet. Wow, Wossy doesn't get up until 10am, shock horror.

As Jeremy Kyle would say, maybe I'm missing the point. What is the point? Maybe the point is I've just 'searched' for Jeremy and he's not on Twitter... yet, but give it time. There is, however, a NOT The Real Jeremy Kyle (and quite a few NOT The Real Celebrity types, which I'm struggling hard to understand the reason for), and also a Jeremy Kyle Show Twitter. Is there no end to this madness?

Stephen Fry does it, of course, and he's quite a prolific Twitterer, so maybe we think because the Great Mr Fry does it, we should too, because he's clever and we're... well not. Boris Johnson is there in his capacity as Mayor of London ("Have also done a deal with the Government for a new railway for South London - very exciting"), as is Jonathon Ross ("I am going to take a nap. Twitter exhaustion"), Philip Schofield ("Welcome my brother to Twitter, but stay loyal to me!") and Alan Carr ("Just watched 'The Wrestler',loved it, i wouldnt be surprised if Donatella Versace goes on to win the Oscar. She was amazing.")

Even Tom Cruise is doing it ("Rejected 7 scripts today. Accepted 1. With caveats. Will be (extra) busy this time next year."), though not very often as I suspect, like me, he's not quite sure what this Twittering phenomenon is all about but doesn't want to run the risk of missing out on anything.

There are non-famous people on Twitter too, but really, who wants to look at those, aren't our own lives mundane enough without having to read about other people's?

So as far as I'm concerned, Twitter is a pointless phenomenon, a mere 'craze' that will pass, like Tamagotchis and Cabbage Patch dolls. And yet, strangely, I keep looking at it with squinty Lee-Van-Cleef eyes (one possibly twitching), thinking, Is it me, or is this all rather insane.

Stranger still, I do it myself, in a kind of not-quite-sure-why way. I tell myself I'm just researching, or feverishly keeping my finger on the pulse of modern technology, but really I suspect I just want to find out what Mrs Kutcher is up to today.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday (Twittering allowing)
Brummie Broad: Hiding out there rest of time.

Card from my beloved?

No.

Romantic gift from the chosen one?

No.

Husband remained in the house and in my life only because we'd agreed beforehand not to bother with commercial celebration this year. I mean, there's only so many fluffy teddies holding red hearts you can accommodate before they start to lose their appeal. [I like what Michael McIntyre said about the Valentine card for his wife, in which he wrote, "I still love you, please see last year's card for details."]

I asked only for five kisses during the course of the day - I'm a real low-maintenance kinda gal. Oh, and dinner in my favourite restaurant, which didn't send the Yorkshireman into spasms of panic because the restaurant in question is actually home (no taxis, no annoying people at the next table, no CPR to administer to the wallet-clutching husband when the bill arrives).

We went to Sainbury's to pick up the ingredients for a romantic candlelit meal.

"Plonk?" Hubs said.

"Moron," I replied, thinking we were in play-mode.

"No," he tutted, "Shall we get a bottle of plonk?"

If you were in Sainsbury's in Selly Oak on Saturday afternoon and you saw two people standing wide-eyed in front of the wine display looking for all the world like two wallabies caught in the headlights of a oncoming truck and muttering, "Which... What... Should we... Perhaps..." that was us. What we know about wine you could carve onto a grain of sand and mount on the point of a needle.

So we went mad and chose something completely different, something that had rum in it, and pineapple juice, and some coconut milk, and other stuff of the alcoholic variety. 14% proof it was.

Two shot glasses before dinner and I was rapping I Will Always Love You in front of the bathroom mirror using a bottle of Pantene Classic Care shampoo as a microphone.

Bladdered? Oh yeah.

The condition of being somewhat intoxicated was further exacerbated by the opening of a bottle of champagne we found in a cupboard (yeah, just found it in a cupboard, bizarre). This was quite recklessly followed by several fingers of whisky in a really large glass, some of which actually managed to reach my mouth.

After a meal lovingly prepared by one's husband, we watch Mamma Mia and, inebriated beyond measure, I was Anni-Frid Lyngstad - much to Hubs' and the dog's amazement (and barely concealed horror). No idea what the neighbours thought of the high-pitched wailing coming from my house that night, but all hopes of ever appearing on the X-Factor have sadly been laid to rest.

It's quite strange to stagger through your own kitchen on the way to the toilet, crashing into the fridge, the sink and the washing machine and laughing hysterically at the amassed collection of injuries. The last time I was so sloshed was at some dire corporate event a decade ago, but its not good behaviour once you're passed 30 (oh stop laughing at the back there, 30 is a perfectly acceptable number to use). Fun though.

It's also quite strange to think, "Oooh, look at me, I'm really drunk, chuckle chuckle hic burp" without having any consideration whatsoever for the hangover that will inevitably follow.

And follow it did.

Boy, did it ever.

I still haven't recovered.

Brummie Broad - Here every Tuesday (alcohol consumption allowing)
Brummie Blogs - Recovering there rest of time