Consider the evidence:
* am sat in a bar, frowning at my lap top
* smoking cigarette between pursed lips
* writing self-obsessed drivel...
* ...about my latest self-inflicted relationship crisis.

Actually, you're in luck, I have banished the self-obsessed drivel to the recycle bin, as it really wasn't fit for human consumption.

No, I've decided that my musings are far more akin to the work of this gentleman.

(Incidentally, whilst searching for pictures of Ms Bradshaw on Google, I came across this fella, who happily enough, happens to be her namesake):

Leaving do tonight though. Whoop! Thank god there isn't going to be a photocopier in the vicinity, or I'd be astride it, handing out blown-up horror prints of every possible bit I'd managed to copy. I feel so wired today. Like I'm going to do something incredibly stupid, and not even care.

What a to-do! Mother and daughter up the duff in synchro! Cue joint baby showers, shared pre-natal exercise sessions, matching maternity dungarees and many, many laughs. Steve Martin gets in a comedy state at various stages of the proceedings, clutching at hair the colour of cobwebs and sucking on his teeth until they are in danger of being hoovered down his throat.

However, there is another reason for mentioning this film, beyond it's damning portrayal of family life in a rich suburban neighbourhood where even the dog basket has laminate wooden flooring....

...What a to-do! Slag Cat and daughter up the duff in synchro! Cue Preggers Senior taking a swipe at any living thing that dares to cross her path, and Preggers Junior being that living thing, more often that not. My dad has got in a comedy state at various stages of the proceedings, despite living two hundred miles away and having to take even less responsibility than the father(s?) See where I'm going with this?

Yet. Here doth the comparison end. Diane Keaton and daughter gave birth within days of each other, yes, but then daughter moved to Boston and that was that.

I don't recall Keaton being forced to breastfeed both the adult child, and her respective offspring. This would have made for a slightly more disturbing end to the film. And doubtless Steve Martin would have wanted his turn, and there's no place for that sort of behaviour in American cinema.

Yet. Slag Cat and daughter also gave birth within days of each other, but shortly after lightening her load, daughter suffers a dramatic regression, abandons her brood and insists on climbing back into the basket with Mumsy and her three kittens. And having her share of milk. So now the entire batch (including daughter's four kittens) are residing in a suitcase, fighting over Slaggy's remaining nipples. Father of the Bride Part II - The Director's Cut?

Slag Cat has squeezed out three kittens, all black. Think that Slaggy Junior has been put off giving birth herself from watching the live show. She's keeping hers in storage for now. Sensible choice. At the moment, the first batch are being offered to anybody who comes near the house, including the window cleaner, as an alternative to his tired bits of cloth.

So when I met Brian on Brighton beach, my plans were thrown into jeopardy. Brian was a small and pointless dog of the very highest order. An 8 week old Chihuahua whose skull would split easier than a lightly boiled egg. His ickle legs weren’t much sturdier than an anorexic pigeon. In fact, his overall appearance was similar to an anorexic pigeon. If you took Brian for a walk, he’d be suffering from palpitations by the time you reached the front door. He’d struggle to drag a feather back to his master. There is no way Brian could ever be an asset to our lives.

Except. Brian oozed charm like a mars bar oozes calories, and proved just as difficult to resist. He trotted up and down the beach, tripping over pebbles, choking on shards of driftwood and using his protruding puppy dog eyes to con a sixteen stone man into giving him a cuddle. He was the reason ‘aaaaaw’ was invented. And I’ve never wanted to stuff something into a carrier bag and run for the hills so much since my days on the dole, when Tampax was a luxury purchase.

So, a dilemma presents itself. There is no way I am going to persuade Olly that two small and pointless dogs are what have always, always been missing in our lives. Even less chance that he’ll allow me to dress them in matching outfits and drag them around in a shopping cart. And small dogs have a point to prove, and they yip and yap and snarl and start fights they can’t finish, and are generally a sodding pain in the neck for anybody without misguided maternal urges.

A choice will have to be made. Do I go for dog number 1, Ruby Tuesday, who has a long, long body, and a small, small brain? Or dog number 2, Brian, who could be trodden underfoot and mistaken for a snail? But both of whom I can get completely ridiculous over. It’s like ‘Sophie’s Choice’ for the new generation.

And if she found herself relocating to Ramsay Street.

And seeing as if a murder ever did occur in Erinsborough, the guilty party would have 'fessed up by the end of the episode.

She may well be forced to resort to writing romance novels, using the residents as her inspiration.

Here's a few titles that me and Mr Perfectblend thought up the other night:

Fraser and Rosie's story: 'Wheel(chair) of Fortune

Bree and Zeke's story: My funny (looking) Valentine

Katya and Ned's story: The Way You Make Me Steal

Aaargh! Pathetic, cowardly (not to mention shockingly unoriginal), this just smacks of somebody who clearly is no way near literate enough to express their feelings with any degree of intelligence.

It's one thing to protest about detention centres on your doorstep, quite another to target a house full of kids, most of whom didn't even come here through choice.

Pob, the transvestite monkey

Or rather, say hello to my alternative persona, the wolf fish.

'Both jaws are armed in front with strong conical teeth, and on the sides with two series of large tubular molars...By these teeth the seawolf is able to crush the hard shells of the crustaceans and molluscs on which it feeds; The rocks between which it hides are usually strewn about with the broken shells of its prey.'

'Holy Crap'.

I've been reading about cats on Wikipedia, and guess what?

Furthermore, cats are superfecund; that is, a female may mate with more than one male when she is in heat, meaning different kittens in a litter may have different fathers.

So, there's a more than strong possibility that we could have up to five errant fathers demanding parental rights, and maybe even scaling a tree in a Batman outfit as some sort of protest.

I know what I'll be getting for my birthday. A big hamper full of kittens.

I have come down to 100mg of sertraline, and the world seems to be tilting on its axis. Rather a lot.

Guess who's decided that mother knows best, and consequently, is also expecting her own set of hairballs? Slag Cat Junior, aka Hitler, due to the markings on her vacant little face.

The true horror of this situation lies not in my poor mother's realisation that she's going to be chief midwife, nor that there will now probably be at least ten cats yowling and mewling and scratching and shitting in the most inconvenient places when she's trying to sell the house.

No.

Now, I have a choice. Do I lie around in a Chinese robe (which I'll have to buy), smoking French cigarettes, listening to Amy Winehouse and perusing the works of Sartre?

Because Parkinson appeared on Neighbours today, that's how! As he engaged in meaningless banter with Karl on the South Bank, the look in Susan's eyes said 'I wanna make me a sandwich'. I'm with you on that one Susie Doll.