The Return

I’m bloody well back.

It was hard, but I made it. I was a bit like Supergirl climbing up that cliff thing out of the phantom zone in the somewhat camp film. Other than the sexy outfit, superpowers, breasts and secret identity, she and I are very similar. I’ve been scaling that cliff for the last two weeks now; somewhere along the way I lost the pants I-can’t-climb-any-more bloke and today I finally made it back out of the mirror (hmmm, maybe my analogy’s stumbling slightly) and am now set to vanquish Faye Dunaway while Peter Cook bemusedly watches.

I had no time to do a proper export of my data before everything broke, so I had to re-import all of my data the hard way. Am I good to you or what. It’s not quite perfect yet, and I should really take the opportunity to undertake revampage, but it’s late and I’m just going to go with it.

Congratulatory gifts, kisses and holidays gladly appreciated. Unless you’re a bloke. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Only on the second. I don’t mind being given gifts by a bloke. In fact, if you give me a holiday, your luck might be in whoever you are. Forget I said that. That was unsaid.

I should really get some sleep.