I want to be a bikie

Ok, before we go any further with this, I would like to apologise to my scooter. For those of you who don't know him, my scooter's name is Struppi (which means "messy hair" in Swiss German, but let's not get into this, it's a long story) and he is the cutest thing ever. He is cute and red and sexy and I love him. We've got a great relationship. We hang out almost every day and never get sick of each other. I polish his coat and he smiles at me and I blow him kisses when I walk up to him. We look great together, we have a similar dress sense and he carries my groceries home. We complete each other. You can see, Struppi and me really have no issues whatsoever, which is why this might come as a bit of a shock to him. I want a motorbike. Sorry, Struppi. I still love you and you will always be my first love.

But sometimes... sometimes, when we stand at the intersection, waiting for the light to go green, sometimes a big bike comes up and stops next to me. And I look over and my heart beats a bit faster. And the bike revs the engine and I bite my lip and try to avoid Struppi's jealous look as I imagine it was me on the bike.

My mum is most definitely going to have a heart attack when she reads this and she might even wonder what went wrong and whether maybe she should have been less strict with me or more strict or allowed me to have a dog. Or a hamster. But honestly, none of this would have mattered. I want a bike, preferably a Triumph, and I want a leather jacket and I'm going to paint wings on my helmet and my bike is going to spit fire and my hair will blow in the wind and I will laugh as I overtake your ass. Mark my words. Sorry mum.

Fine then.

Paula is going back home to Brazil for two months tomorrow. I'm not happy. I don't think people should be allowed to leave like that. I mean it's all good and well for her but what about us? What are we going to do without her? Probably just sit in the corner and cry. A bit more consideration for us would have been nice.

Have a safe trip, babe, and come back soon please! And while you sit at the beach and eat fresh crab and drink passionfruit juice don't forget your poor friends who are sitting at home crying in the corner.

Wait until you see the new receptionist

I am looking for a new receptionist again. It's not easy to find good quality staff. And silly me, I have just been going through the usual channels and have advertised on online employment sites. While really, I should have just contacted this agency:

Sounds much more promising to me.

July declared "Let Yourself Go" Month by Shape Magazine

Who says the media is all about bad news? I was delighted when The Onion -America's finest news source- reported today that July has been declared "Let Yourself Go" Month by Shape Magazine. The women's fitness magazine apparently called on readers to have some more fun and stop being boring and obsessive. "You've toned those abs and burned the flab in time for bikini season... Now it's time for a meatball sandwich," wrote Shape editor Barbara Harris. "Come on, live a little. Don't be a tight-ass with a tight ass. Eat, lounge, and slouch your way to a happier, more satisfied you."

Features in the issue apparently include "Girth Equals Mirth: Six Sure-Fire Techniques For Broadening That Belly," "Wrinkles: The More You Have, The More You've Lived," and "Reduce Unwanted Stress By Not Giving A Fuck."

Now that's something we can all aspire to. As far as I'm concerned, I'm totally down with that. I have decided to celebrate "Let Yourself Go" Month in style. Who's with me?

I'm a fag hag, so what?

I fell in love with a gay guy on the weekend. His name is Garry, with two r. Which is a bit weird, but it's ok because he is pretty cool. No, I'm not talking about the "I love you so much I want to marry you and have kids with you" kind of love. More the way you fall in love with a pair of shoes or a new car. Which works out much better for me, because he has a boyfriend. And he's gay.

I was out at a night club with a group of friends and I started talking to Garry and his friends outside when I was having a cigarette. He told me that I was gorgeous and added straight away: "Don't worry, darling, I'm gay!" Yep, I already had a sneaking suspicion. He and his friends ended up spending the rest of the night with us and we had the best time. I felt really comfortable around him and he made me laugh so much. We exchanged numbers and he invited me and Michelle to come for a barbeque sometime at their house. He sent me a text message the next morning and I sent him one back. I think we are just meant to be.

Me and gay guys just got it going on. I love hanging out with them because most of them are hilarious and a bit eccentric and they love shopping and talking about love and checking out men and they are great cooks and groovy dancers. They are men, yet I don't have to think about whether they might just want to get into my pants. Gay gays are cool. I’ve got loads of gay friends in Switzerland, including my best male friend Mikey, and a few over here too.

Yep, I'm a fag hag. And proudly so. Now would you excuse me, we've got some Cosmopolitans to sip and some excessive dancing and bitching to do, darling.

Meant to be: Yours truly with Garry on the left and Campbell on the right

Spit some fire, baby!

Look at me and my adorable little Triumph Spitfire 1969. Aren't we a beautiful couple? I think we are quite clearly made for each other- a match made in heaven, I would say.

I am so in love with the Spitfire. It is quite possibly one of the most beautiful cars I have ever seen and it runs like a treat and purrs like a kitten. I bought it quite a few years ago and spent seven years rebuilding it until it looked and ran the way it does today. You didn't know I was that mechanically talented, did you? Me neither. And, well, technically speaking, the Spitfire isn't really mine. It kind of belongs to my friend Ashley. And he kind of rebuilt it. But let's not get all technical here, shall we? I so wish it was mine. And I think I look pretty good with it. Let's just leave it at that.

Just because you ask so nicely

Why don't you?