Oooooooh, Scary is sick. Not life-threatening sick, just chucking-up-lumps-sweating-like-a-pig-generally-feeling-like-I've-got-a-Frenchman-living-in-my-head sick. And the worse thing is, it keeps me awake all night, so I get to feel rotten twenty-four hours a day. Which is just lovely.
Send pie. Sterilised pie.
2.30pm update: I've recovered enough to foresake the bucket and come on here and thank the lovely Pinky for the lovely pressie she got me off my Amazon Wish List. That's the second mystery parcel from strange women that I've had to explain to Mrs Scary. I'm not at liberty to divulge the exact content of said package, except for the fact that Ziggy plaaaaayed gui-taaaaaaaaaar! In the meantime, we love Pinky. Send her "O".
Still need pie.