Tirty Tree

Go on then, all ye non-Irish who have spent years slagging me over the 'th' business. At long last, I'm turning TIRTY TREE today, providing you with a full year's entertainment. Oh yes, every time I mention my age, you will all collapse in hysterics. Just wait until June, when I turn TIRTY TREE AND A TURD! Ah, the good times we'll have.

Aunty me

Petrichor

It's the scent of rain on dry earth. At its strongest during the first hard rain after a long dry spell. Try as they might, the noses of the world have yet to bring it through a bottle to our city skins. It can only be found in the desert, after rain. But it has a name, this elusive, far-away fragrance. Petrichor. The scent of rain on dry earth.

And then he x-ed me

There is nothing that can make my stomach flutter like a kiss on the head from the right man. It's not a lead-up kiss, or a bye-honey kiss, or a stop-talking kiss. It's a kiss that is all tenderness and there is really nothing like it. Except. When you've been corresponding for months, mail forward, mail back, and then, out of nowhere, he plants a little x on you. Just there. Outside of anything else. A little, lower case x in an email. And it almost floats to the top of your head and lands somewhere in your hair. And oh the flip and sigh of it. Sweet.