Self Portrait In Filthy Car Mirror

Wowsers! This is my 300th post. There's not many things I've managed to do 300 times in my life, but blogging can now officially check the 300 box. Nice red tick - lovely!

Now, of course, I feel compelled to make a list of things I have actually done 300 times. I have a hunch it will be short, as I'm not going to include things like sleeping, or brushing teeth. This shall be a list of things that I have deliberately set out to do. Even if I didn't want to.

- Made soup. Oh heavens above, I love soup, and since we have it at least every second week, and I've been cooking for myself for at least 14 years, I think I've made soup about 504 times. Or there abouts.

- Read 300 books. Easy peasy for this bookworm. Although the last one was a complete and utter dog of a book. Waste of trees. Maybe I should ensure the next 300 are good books, at the very least.

- Shaved my legs. Probably. Less in winter, but more in summer, based on the soup calculations. So it evens out nicely. Says me.

- Drank 300 bottles of red wine. Oh dear. Well, over 14 years it's not too bad, but still, I suspect I can feel my liver revolting as I type this. The soup calculation suddenly isn't looking so favourable. Hic!

- Sang "Moon, moon" to Grumbles. Actually, now I think about it, I sing it twice a day, so it only takes 21.5 weeks for me to accomplish that. Next!

- Hung out the washing. Actually, it feels like I've done that 3000 times. Ditto for doing the dishes, making the beds, sweeping the floor, cleaning the toilet and getting down on hands and knees to clean up the crumbs from under Grumbles chair. And the squashed beans. And pieces of corn. And squished sultanas. And anything goopy that will adhere to the floor with the efficiency of concrete.

- Bruised myself in unorthodox places by doing ridiculous yet mundane things. Check! I swear I do this every other day. This morning, for example, when sorting out the laundry, I backed my bottom into the corner of the bathroom cabinet. Why? WHY? I know the cabinet is there. I know the general promixity and spatial existence of my arse. Why must they meet and leave a bruise as a calling card? At least there was nobody around to hear me collide and then utter "Ooooof! Oh, bugger!"

- Told the Galumph and Grumbles that I love them. Some things can't be done enough.