When moths collide

If you are still recovering from that Sunday morning lie-in - the one accompanied by cold tea and burnt toast, the gift of something pink, or possibly a power tool you couldn't imagine using in a million years, then this unverified "leaked" recording may be of interest.

Dearest Kim.

How's it going in the Dotcom mansion?

Dear John, In a post-Easter spirit of new life and magnanimity, I have forgiven your failure to award me a New Year's gong. You can't hold a wannabe dame down though (not that I am suggesting you would do anything so untoward). I am brimming with innovation and I am thinking big.

It's been exhausting, darlings, this whole iD Fashion Week thing.

John. Go on. Pick me. Please. You know you want to.

Dear friends (including old colleagues from the ODT sports department), I know you have probably all been gutted or on an emotional rollercoaster in the past week or so over Otago rugby. But fair suck of the sav, your performance has let the side down.

Was it a gamble? Could I trust the Queen of Cookery to do the right thing by my Anzac biscuits, or would she be tempted to let them go limp and lose the snap we believed necessary in an A and P show prize-winner?

I was prepared for the triumphant arrival of Ronnie and Maggie, but foolishly forgot they would be accompanied by the talking scales.

If I thought sorting out myriad nooks and crannies in my hellhole of a house was bad for my blood pressure, my attempt for relief from that last week was worse.

My rapidly diminishing number of brain cells has possibly not been helped by the inhalation of things found in odd containers during the basement clean-up.