My twittercide will be like the final scene in BraveHeart but a doughnut will fall from my hand in slowmo instead of an embroidered hanky.
I’ve set my hair on fire lighting a cigarette before, so I’m always impressed when the movie-hero walks away from an explosion unharmed.
If I was an alcoholic, I’d stash all my booze in the laundry basket because apparently I’m the only person in my house who knows it exists.
Online relationships – For when you want to be disappointed by imaginary people, too.
My son approaches even small chores with the enthusiasm of a POW forced to build a railway bridge over the river Kwai.
In retrospect, the kidnapping was going according to plan until I blew my nose on the rag I’d soaked with chloroform.
My son just paced back and forth dictating his letter to Santa like a high-powered CEO.
Forget Prada, the Devil wears Ironman pyjamas.
I always leave the room when my son’s imaginary friend comes to play. I’ve seen ‘The Sixth Sense’ and frankly, I’m not taking any chances.
Expecting an idiot to admit they’re wrong feels a lot like trying to put socks on an octopus.
Fondly remembering a time when I could wear an over-sized guy’s cardigan and still look pretty sexy, now I just look like a crazy bag lady.