Often, if I see subjects I’d like to mention here, I make little notes to refresh my memory when the time comes to write the post. This week I did that, and while most of my scrawlings still make sense, I’m blowed if I know why I jotted down the words ‘jammy spoon’. I’ve been racking my brain all afternoon and I still can’t figure out why I thought you needed to know about such a thing. So, sorry, no jammy spoons for you. However, you do get this:

- From Monday, your blogger will be donning her editorial hat over at eggnchips, so pop over and have a read …. and make sure you subscribe because I want to make a good impression! In fact, you could go further and send (bribes) gifts to the owner in the form of money, expensive watches, cake … especially cake, everyone can be bribed by cake. OK, the cake thing might just be me, but I do hope to see you there!

- I really enjoyed this post from Jo over at Slummy Single Mummy rebutting yet another spite-filled rant from Jan Moir.

In case you didn’t know, Jan now has the right to say pretty much anything she likes, about anyone she likes, as long as she dresses it up as opinion. Hmm. Using the logic of the PPC, I’m awfully tempted to share my opinion of Jan, but that would include such words as ‘bitter, twisted professional bully whose only talent is to be obnoxious’, which would be unkind, so I won’t.

- The Guardian are asking people who their favourite superhero is. Disappointingly,  the poll is a bit small, you can only choose Superman or Batman, both of whom are obviously inferior to Spiderman. Spiderman is, in my opinion, the superhero of choice for all creative geeks. But if you think differently let me know in the comments

- Last night on The Bubble, David Mitchell mentioned an upsetting experience he had with tropical fish. I never thought I’d blog these words, but here goes:  I had an even more distressing experience with tropical fish. Well, not just me, it was a trauma the whole family could share, every time we sat down to watch television.

When we first moved here, we rented a house which came equipped with a tank full of tropical fish. Unfortunately, the previous tenants hadn’t looked after the original fish very well, so the estate agent had restocked the tank. Even more unfortunately, he didn’t know much about fish and brought the wrong sort. In amongst all the pretty, glittery ones, he’d added two big, black shark-like things that proceeded to systematically eat every other fish in the tank. The tank was above the television – yes, I thought that was a bad idea too – so every time we tried to watch a programme, we were transfixed by scenes of fishicide.

It was really, really awful. I’m not joking. It’s very hard to explain to a small child why delightful, little creatures are being torn fin from fin only feet away from the Teletubbies.  And the problem with badly behaved fish is you can’t do much about them – it’s not as if you can build them a kennel or take them to training classes. Instead, I resorted to shouting, ‘No! No! Please stop eating your friends!’, but they didn’t listen.

Anyhoo, eventually all the pretty, little fish were gone, and we were left with their murderers. This was even more disturbing because they developed a habit of coming to the front of the tank and giving us this look, a look that said, ‘one day we’ll get out of here, then you’ll be on the menu’. Just after that we moved.

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