The ties that bind

Why is it that blokes generally have to wear a shirt and tie in the workplace and women can get away with much less formal dress? I've never quite understood this.

Ah well.


Breasts
There's a stink been kicked up by some nannying charities who want the advertising of infant formula to be banned. Fucking Breast is Best Nazis want to stop sticking their self-righteous noses into peoples' business.

Having spent a considerable amount of time with a newborn this year, I think mothers should be forced to use formula to shut babies up. With the best intentions, some mums don't satisfy their babies with the breast milk they can produce and they need to supplement. But of course, at the back of their minds are the lectures from the Breast Feeding Nurses at the maternity unit and the displeasure in said wimmins' voices when they're asked what to do if mum can't breast feed. "Persevere!", no "Well, you need to know how to sterilise bottles if you're going to formula feed", so the mums end up giving their babies nasty gut infections and killing them instead.

Cocks.

Let's face it, with some of the shit that some breast-feeding mothers eat, formula is probably much safer than toxic boob juice.


Bored
I'm here at the Moonlighting Drug Testing Agency. What with having more mouths to feed, I need to bringing in more cash.

Working here occasionally has its bonuses; the folk here are nice, the work is OK (but there are long gaps at times), the money comes in handy for my gadget habit. But once you agree to do this sort of locum work, you always feel kind of tied. There's no reason for me to feel a responsibility, but I feel guilty if I don't agree to come in at weekends and evenings. The weekends are OK, it's evenings that are killers.

But what I like about being here is that I'm back in the lab, doing science things, wearing a lab coat. Your day is dictated by beeping timers that help you stick to a set protocol. You have defined tasks.

And you get two hour gaps here and there.

And they don't block blogger.


Pop my TV cherry
Tump upgraded our cable TV today. After a number of text messages asking when I thought the TV channels would come through, then one saying everything had gone off, I told her to phone them. Instead of upgrading us, they'd disconnected us.

Well done Virgin.

Of course, they'd never had treated her so shabbily had she dropped in a "Do you know who I am?", which she has every right to now that she is a star of radio. It was weird listening to her as she gave an interview on Gaydio yesterday (listen live on http://www.gaydio.co.uk/!), it was her, but she sounded really professional. Made me feel unworthy.

But what if she is destined for stardom? How would I cope with being her wife, tagged along to premieres, never given a speaking role? There'd be gossip magazine articles about why she should dump me for some glamour model, the press would delve into my past. Actually, the press would delve into her past, which is a lot more interesting than mine.

Perhaps I'm off the hook. Perhaps me, Rocky and Looshkin won't be abandoned afterall. The latter spent all night out last night. She came back wet, whingy and with her front paws died orange. I think she must've been messing about with the travelling fairground that appeared on the field at the back of us yesterday.

I wonder what a cat or dog would do if you took it on a waltzer?