Nipple swap November 23, 2007Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
I was just saying to the Russian that, in a way, it’s a shame his nipples aren’t on his back as then I could have a little manipulate of them instead of just getting plain back when sitting behind him watching Wife Swap. But then I suppose they’re conveniently enough positioned where they are at other times and I can’t get on to the United Nations at this hour to suggest a working group be set up, chaired by São Tomé and Principe, to prepare a fact-finding mission AND feasibility study into whether we can all have our nips moved.
And, darlings, I can’t write about TV and Wife Swap again, so will limit myself to saying it is quite the most engaging televisual experience I’ve ever had. Twice. Yes, twice I can remember watching the programme and twice it’s been perfect as they have, inevitably, got two utterly different wives, one of whom is prim, proper and as anal about how the cutlery sits in its little plastic home as Mickey Rourke was about his suits in that film – what’s it called? 13¾ Weeks? – with Kim Basingstoke and the other who is, as luck would have it, less prim, untroubled by intellect and happy to live in a one-bedroomed cesspit. God, it’s a good watch.
So, I won’t blog about that. No TV. No nipples. That’s in the constitution.
I’m being a beaver at the moment. Beavering away at all sorts. Mostly of a translatorly bent. So I’m a zombie. Incapable of thought. And equally incapable of blogging. So I’m only really writing this to keep my hand in (and now dispel inopportune thoughts of the Hokey Cokey). And to say hello again.