P*ssing down

Just in time to make my lurgy feel lots better, this morning I wake to find Urine Towers under a cloud. Not a metaphorical one, an actual wet one.

I have decided to enter the Yeovil Literary Prize 2006 with one of my poems. Nothing ventured; nothing gained.
In other news, my lurgy is now official, with a capital L. The doctor told me I have sinusitis (give yourself a degree in medicine) and that it may have been exacerbated by the stress I have been under (no shit, Sherlock) and it is responsible for all my other symptoms. I must have gone in with my cabbage head on.
In fairness, he seems very nice - I might even try my facial hair on him. Past responses have varied between "what facial hair" (I exfoliate, you DH) or "Why don't you save up for a wax?" As I can only infrequently afford a head haircut, a six weekly trip to a salon would be impractical, inaffective and unaffordable (wow, a gaggle of negative prefixes) .
In more other news, the Police have been at it again, bandying words about. This time they are investigating the "victimology" of a case.
In my experience the kind of vocabulary new police officers normally learn is more useful in a domestic setting. "Stupid Bitch", "Fat Cow", "Ugly Useless Fat Cow" all begin to slip off the tongue really easily once the officer gains a certain proficiency in the spiel. But victimology? They'll be forensicating the scene next.