I have several apologies to make.

My first is for not posting yesterday. I broke my strictly self-imposed Sunday posting schedule thanks to a very slightly delayed flight from Darwin (where, yes, I did eat crocodile schnitzel). I used this minute change to justify my decision to indulge in bran and milk rather than fulfil my personal obligations.

My second is for the late hour of this post. I am well aware that it is well past 9pm.

My third apology is for my actual apology, which is implied in he rambling rubbish below.

But I’ve got a thumper of a headache at the moment, so I can’t really be expected to make much sense.

It feels like someone has somehow managed to get their foot inside my skull and is jamming their great, dirty big toe out of my left eye socket.

I realise that this must read quite graphic, but I want to be precise here. I want my readers to have an acute understanding as to why I haven’t prepared a long, rambling piece for them like the luscious duck lasagna Jamie Oliver had done on one particularly indulgent episode of Comfort Food.

Instead, you bloody kids are getting microwaved fish fingers and you’ll be jolly lucky to have it, too.

Yep, this is a literary fish finger, sodden and limp from the lazy manner in which it was prepared, which only accentuates its lack of substance.

But while that must make me the woman who wears visors with a perm as she ducks out for bingo, I have to accept that. Unfortunately I chose neither books, looks or am married to Danny DeVito.

Do you see what’s happening here? Did anyone else predict the reference to Matilda coming at the start of this post? Because I sure as shit did not.

I’m merely pressing buttons because I like the way they sound when my rhythm is fast and because it makes me feel productive enough to warrant the second cup of tea I’m already planning to have as I upload this to the internet with tepid triumph. My victory party will, I can already tell, climax with my jotting down in my diary a note about having made this little written contribution to a world that doesn’t much care for it. I will highlight it in orange and feel the unfounded sense of superiority I have come to crave shoot around my major and minor arteries until it makes complete a full loop around my circulatory system and returns to my heart as the cold reminder of the dull, damp dishcloth that is my life. Then I will be free to shut off the lights and wait until sleep comes for me like a merciful angel.

Sometimes people think I am dramatic and pitifully angsty, but I don’t see that.

Update on the headache sitch? Staring at a computer screen, surprisingly, did nothing to help. In fact, it now feels as if the metaphorical little toes need a serious pedicure as they imaginarily scratch at the hollow of my forehead. And while I shouldn’t be able to tell, in my mind (which is were they are anyway), they are yellowed and flaky.

Now my ear hurts.

Clearly, I need to hit the proverbial hay.

Sorry guys. So much sorry.