There is, if you can believe it, no universally accepted term or word used to describe a male mistress. Sure there are toyboys but that implies that they’re younger than you and, let’s face it, that is not always the case. Younger is not always better. Tighter, yes, but better … no.

Shocking, isn’t it?

Not shocking because I am like a four-year-old, who needs to add a name tag to everything, but shocking because it implies – through omission - that a woman could not possibly have a male mistress.  That she will, regardless of the situation, always be the mistress.

The double standards are astounding and more than that they are irritatingly inaccurate.

But being the control-freak that I am I have developed a very workable solution. From this day forth all male mistresses that I come into contact with shall be named mattresses. It’s bound to catch on and, because it’s not nearly as obvious as talking about a mistress, you will find yourself mentioning it everywhere.

So married-women-who-decide-to-stray it is finally time to rejoice. Your male mistress, the mattress, can now be afforded the same nicknaming-and-shaming rituals ordinarily reserved for his female counterparts.

and …

Graeme Smith.

I wonder if Mr Muscle knows?

It’s obvious gnomism and it should not be tolerated.

All the signs are there.

Banks bankrupting themselves, hedge funds going down in a steaming pile of compost, significant job losses across all sectors and the list of recession style happenings goes on and on. Yet (incredulously) there are people who still think nothing is wrong. They bury their heads in the metaphorical sand and trust that by doing so they’ll completely avoid the meltdown.

This is Ostrich Logic and it works in the most delightful way - if you can’t see the problem it doesn’t exist and if it doesn’t exist there is no problem.

What do you do with these avoidant ostrich descendents? Well I’m you could just accept that they’re different and let them carry on being or you could eat them.

I’m pretty sure that those that have descended from ostriches (i.e. politicians) taste way better than those that descended from apes. With a little bit of sauce and some basting you’d be hard-pressed to notice the difference.

A picture of the beauty

Sob.Sob.Sob. Siff noise people make when they’ve been crying to much Sob.Sob.Sob

I realise that saying I’m in love with Makro makes me sound like a lunatic. I’m sure it’s grounds for the instantaneous revoking of ones cool status. It’s not a boutique, it’s well priced and it all about mass marketing, gasp. It’s shocking and it goes against all my get-ripped-off-by-designer-items scruples.

I no idea I’d enjoy shopping The Makro Way. I’ve seen their catalogues, visited their website but - until today - I’d never set foot in one.

It’s not laid out like any of my previous favourite shops but they trump all of them by giving you, the customer, a huge buy-the-whole-shop trolley and they make it even better by selling a whack of very cool stuff for super-duper prices.

Perhaps it was a good thing I’ve discovered Makro this late in my life. Maybe it was my last line of defence? The one thing stopping me from utter financial ruin! I don’t know what I’m going to do now that I’ve discovered the Bargain Mecca.

The only positive is that it’s in Ottery and that’s far, far, far away. It’s almost in a different province. Kind of like Hout Bay.

The time has come to get rid of that, no longer socially acceptable, 70’s-style porn star tarantula. Yes I’m sad to say that bigger is only better when it applies to HIM. When it applies to HER, well, then we have a whole different set of rules. We, as modern women, are required to ensure that ours is maintained with German precision.

I’m sure this is what our Feminist foremothers fought for. Now we’re allowed to vote and have an opinion provided our lawn is manicured or, in true Hollywood style, non-existent! That prepubescent, look everyone I’m 12, hairless look is apparently on the increase. Hey if you’re into looking plucked go for it.

I think it’s the inequality of it all that upsets me. Female nether-region side burns are not on when it comes to good underwear, costume or naked etiquette. While when it comes to men it doesn’t matter. A guy can squeeze himself into budgie smugglers [Speedo], have hair spilling out of every orifice, a stomach they can rest their beers on and still manage to believe they’re entitled to park their plane on a well-maintained landing strip.

Many of us can’t afford to splurge the way we do and this causes very real problems in our lives. The kind of problems that don’t go away. The kind that keeps you awake for hours. The kind that ruins families and marriages. If you are not strong enough to stick to your shopping boundaries during the festive season then you are, for lack of a better word, screwed. Retail therapy at this time of year is like the most addictive drug, once you start there is no turning back.

How do you deal with it and not succumb to the pressure? How do you ignore the massive undercurrent of want underlying this time of year? I wish I had an answer for you, a quick fix, a solution of sorts. Unfortunately I have nothing. All I know is that you need to be totally honest with yourselves and if you can’t afford it move on. Just say no. A few extra presents under a tree are not worth living with the stress of debt in the New Year.

Sure you can pretend it’s not there, it’s great to pretend but pretending doesn’t make it real. You still have that annoying ex lingering over your shoulder. They’re that situational-stalker you used to share a bed with. If you have kids it’s worse – you never, ever, ever, ever get rid of them. Sports days, graduations, weddings, christenings and birthdays.

Such happy thoughts.

Your ex is your constant bad taste phase reminder. No one ever has to whip out embarrassing pictures of you in the 80’s, instead they just point to your ex.

I suppose that the sad truth, for many, is that the hefty divorce bonus goes a long way in alleviating the massive I can’t believe I married that complex.

A new house or two, a sports car, beautiful shoes, bags, clothes, holidays, friends and a masseuse with benefits are the best roofies your ex’s money can buy.