Yes, ’tis true. Someone hired me.

I managed to sober up long enough to get a job offer last week. Hop, skip, etc.

It’s with a creative agency and it’s very exciting. I will be a pro blogger, would you believe. Given that I only started dicking around with this format a mere year ago, that’s not bad going.

The best bit? They have a massive booze cupboard in their board room. It is literally filled full of throat stripper. I had to do a ‘welcome to the company’ shot of sambuca last Friday.

Damn. I think I found my spiritual home.

Wales. What a jewel of a principality this pocket of infinite rolling green is. Of course, the reason for it’s bountiful lushness is the near-constant pissing rain, but you can’t have it all. Anyway, I digress…

My parents are building a house in Powys, which I believe is Welsh for ‘the middle of fucking nowhere’. They plan to decamp there permanently as soon as the doors are on. I don’t blame them. Their other house is in Kent, a county so overpopulated with pikeys and fat bastards I’m surprised the council haven’t built temporary floating houses to spill out into the Channel. One can only hope that the day this happens, the anchors come unstuck and the dross can float off in the direction of France. Sort that, Sarkozy.

Anyway, I digress… again.

The German and I are headed to Powys for the weekend because we’re going to a festival there. It’s a small community affair, granted, but I love all that. It’s something you just don’t get in the smoke. Everyone’s too busy avoiding a knife attack to worry about polite human interaction.

There’s always a generous helping of village gossip to keep me scandalised for weeks and the booze flows. Oh, how it flows. Never mind the Irish: bless my daffodils, the Welsh can drink. Last time I was up there the dogs needed letting out the morning after a particularly heavy duty session. It was nearly 9am but I was still wazzered from the previous night, so the local farmers were treated to the eye-watering sight of Ms Hsh-Hush staggering around outside in naught but a teeny weeny towel and a massive pair of wellies.

I am all class.

So wish I and the liver luck and have a good one yourselves. Stories to follow, I’m sure.

If you haven’t heard Chromatics before and you die tomorrow, your life will have been aurally meaningless and unfulfilled.

The richness of sublime musical intervention will not save your soul.

You will be cast down into the fiery pits of hell where the sweet chimes and cherubic vocals of Chromatic - or any other band for that matter - will be all but a melancholic whisper of a memory.

So after that little diatribe, I’d have a listen if I were you. If only so I’ll stop harping on…

(Particular thumbs up go to the Kate Bush cover.)

Something a bit weird is happening to my voice.

It’s starting to go all husky and cracky on occasion. Especially today. Having had a good old listen, a friend assures me this is a positive asset to the ensemble of odds and ends that is Ms Hush-Hush.

Please God, let this be the voice of Mariella Frostrup and not a throat infection.

I woke up this morning all golden brown.

The smell of the fake tan also woke up The German, but whatever, get over it man.

I look like a perfectly baked shortbread.

I am hot shit. If you’re a baker or someone’s grandmother…

Some very good friends bit the dust last night and got engaged. It is very exciting and thrilling news.

Amusingly, it has prompted some serious panicking from The German. He’s the last one of his close friends to hit the ground on bended knee and pop that question, you see.

After consulting my crystal ball, I can confirm two things.

The first is that I’m quite happy for him to hold out for a good while yet. The second is that this fact will not prevent me from winding him up at every available opportunity. And recruiting everyone else we know to do the same. Feel free to take a cheap shot in the comments section, dear readers.

Poor bastard.

Hmmmm. Interesting goings on in the Ladyshambles bathroom this morning.

Last night, I and a group of fabulously talented ex-colleagues and dear friends, known collectively for the sake of this blog as The Lab Rats, visited vegetarian gastric outpost Manna Restaurant.

You see, one of our party is a vegetarian. He is a bilker of burgers; he cold shoulders the cutlets. Steaks? Eschewed and unchewed. But since the last venue for our soiree was one of London’s finest meat emporiums, we thought it only fair to sample the delights of all things herbivore.

While the food was surprisingly good - the kitchen positively excelled itself with the organic fruit crumble - this morning it appears we’re all suffering from a force eight gale in the bowel and more burn than even Jane Fonda would recommend.

I’m afraid as lovely as this carnivore’s jaunt down the tofu track was, I’m heading back to commune with the cows.

It might take up to three days for a juicy slab of sirloin to wend its way through my colon, but quite frankly, when it comes to digestion, I’ll eat the hare and hitch a ride with the tortoise.

He’s got a face like a bag of spanners, but I’d pay good money to have DCI Gene Hunt call me Bolly Knickers.

Deconstructed sexist pig? Couldn’t give a fuck. He’s all man.

Let’s fire up the Quattro.

*Swoon*

In the 26 and three quarter years I have trodden God’s green Earth, it’s been quite plain that my maternal streak may need a little coaxing from its hiding place.

Children are like farts: you love your own (yes, you do!) but other people’s? No ta.

I’d love to have kiddies with The German. He would be a top drawer Dad, truly wonderful (and he’d look right gorgeous with a small one in those strap-them-to-your-chest sling affairs). In fact, if it weren’t for him, I would actively dismiss my part in procreation as utter bobbins and waste no more time thinking about it.

Despite nurturing these tiny thought-foetuses regarding Teutonic-influenced nesting, they live in a dim and distant land called Early to Mid Thirties. So you can imagine my overwhelming shock when my ovaries started to gently hum the day before yesterday.

I was in the GP waiting room. A woman sat down in front of me and extracted from an industrial sized pram, one of the most gorgeous babies I have ever clapped eyes on. I went all like a marshmallow for a bit, which being the first time this has ever happened, made me feel a little odd.

Thankfully it passed reasonably rapidly, but I needn’t have worried even if it hadn’t. The reason? Misssy M Misssives and her triumphant blog post describing what childbirth is really like, in all its glorious Hammer horror technicolour.

This good and truthful woman not only made me roar with laughter, but she has also silenced my ovaries. They can start jigging about again in 2013.

And not a moment sooner.