Grouchiness and Jewellery

I slept like proverbial merde last night. Not even dancing in a tube station with Nick Grimshaw (in my dream, obviously) lightened my mood this morning, particularly since getting up I have fallen down the stairs quite possibly breaking the bones of my middle and ring fingers; been shivering with cold because the gas fire has broken down; and to top it all I can't read The Times because my mum swiped it before I could get the crossword, leaving me with only the Saturday pullouts.

OK, so I haven't really broken my fingers. I can't have because I'm typing this blog. And I have put on my oriental-style dressing-gown as an extra layer. I might look ridiculous but my core temperature has risen to a smidgeon above zero. But I'm still grumpy because the special magazine Luxx is full of overpriced jewellery and bold titles exhorting me to 'BUY IT NOW, LOVE IT FOREVER'. No. Shan't. You can't make me, bold titles or not.

The problems I have with urges of spending such as this one is that I probably won't love it forever. In fact, I probably won't love it to begin with - it (whatever 'it' may be) is an inanimate object that will most likely break, get lost, or delight me for a limited time before I eventually grow bored and throw it out of the window of my Lamborghini (in my mind). Secondly, the price. There is a lovely little pearl necklace with a diamond seal clasp, price on application. Since when does one have to apply for jewellery? It's not a university process. Are they going to ask why a person wants a necklace? Isn't that obvious? We're certainly not going to coat it in Dulux paint and hide it in a cheesecake. Besides which, if there is no price, there can be no doubt whatever that the item in question will cost you your liver and possibly a lung, if you can spare it. Thirdly, I, personally, have grown weary of the bombardment from fashion magazines and similar adverts of that ilk. Shiny, sparkly things are all very lovely but only when one has a place to wear them. At the moment, my current prospects for social engagements are looking wafer thin, so thin they're more like vapour. If I came gliding (or indeed falling) down the stairs decked in Cleopatra glitz, I fear a comparison to Miss Havisham would swiftly be made and a straightjacket produced. You have no idea what we manage to keep in our garage.

Speaking of which, my dad has been asking whether we have any hyperdermic syringes to inject some questionable substance into the marzipan he's making. I'm terrified what this might mean for the Christmas cake.