Oh dear.

Sorry for going all quiet on you. The last thing Ben said to me before we left the hospital was 'not to blog about this on that stupid blog thing' so I thought I'd best leave things to calm down for a couple of days.

Yes. That's right, we were at the hospital. On Friday night I nearly killed my best mate.

It wasn't my fault! If you remember, I was cooking for everyone when the twat came round to ruin my life. Instead of putting the chicken in the oven, I thought I'd have a bath and a glass of wine to relax. Half a bottle of wine and a bubble bath later and I suddenly remembered about the chicken sat on top of the cooker waiting to be roasted.

As it turns out, you can't speed cook chicken. Everyone was too pissed to notice it wasn't cooked properly. Except I was just pushing food around my plate feeling sorry for myself.

Ben's fine now! Don't worry. He's feeling much better. I mean, he hasn't spoken to me all weekend, but that's to be expected. Hopefully he'll calm down soon. Maybe when he can eat solid food.

I blame this entirely on The Twat. First he recks my life and then he nearly kills my best friend. I hate him. Hate him. Well, probably don't hate him. Might still love him a little bit. Quite a lot actually...

When is the best time to tell Ben about all this I wonder? Answers on a postcard...

Flickr image from Boliston's photostream.