Dear comrades, I'm taking a wee break from WNP. And that's wee as in small and brief. I mean, I'm not bursting for the loo or anything.

Back in a jiffy!

I changed my surname when I got hitched. Not because I had aspirations of being a docile 1950s housewife, rather I just felt like a change from the one I'd received upon exiting the womb. Plus, when you added Reid to my given names Shauna Lee, it made me sound even more like a clapped-out country and western singer. SHAWWWNA LUHEEEE REEEEED. Who could walk away from that?

Shauna Lee, my Shauna Lee
Why won't you come back to me?
The fridge is empty
And I need my tea
Come home, Shauna Lee.

If you change your name by marriage the Australian authorities give you 12 months in which you can get a new passport for free. When did I discover that? After 23 months of marriage. D'oh! So now I have cough up the handsome fee of £75.

And of course this comes after already paying £50 to obtain a Change of Name Certificate from the NSW Births, Deaths and Marriages people because the Passport people don't accept non-Australian marriage certificates. Are they suggesting a marriage certificate with a floating head of Elvis it is not legitimate? That's an outrage.

Last night I was tearing through the flat looking for even more forms of Identification to satisfy the Passport people. I could not find a bloody thing. I upturned boxes, emptied bookshelves and unmade the bed all in vain. There was a panicky, unsettling feeling that the search should have been a lot easier than it was. It wasn't til later on when I wanted to read Gareth a funny bit from a book that I figured it out. I was flicking through the pages and getting increasingly cranky at not being able to find the right passage. It was like I had typed the keyword into my brain and could not figure out why the book wasn't automatically searching and turning itself to correct the page. That would be because IT WAS A BOOK and not a computer.

Likewise when I was sitting on the floor surrounded by shoes and dumbells and dirty socks, the keywords DRIVERS LICENCE were zapping across my eyes and I couldn't understand why the drawers were not opening themselves and why the boxes were not automatically being sorted. I thought there should be random objects floating in the air Mary Poppins style from the sheer force of my searching thoughts. But instead I was getting your search has returned 0 results. It was such a crushing feeling to realise I would have to look in a completely manual, analogue fashion.

Three years ago today, love was shiny and new and I could still barely make eye contact without blushing. I'd cleverly ranted and raved in advance about crappy overpriced Valentines flowers that only last a day, so I was chuffed when Gareth showed up on my doorstep with a plant.

I christened him Duncan!

I've destroyed every other plant I've ever owned, including a trio of Unkillable Cactii. But Duncan has marched on and on, strong and unruly and rather primeval looking in his dinky pot that looks like it was crafted from the walls of a Swedish sauna.

I like to think his flourishing is some sort of symbol of our relationship, but to be honest it's more likely because Gareth remembers to water the poor bastard.

Happy V-Day, Doc!

It is just too bloody easy to get out of a blogging rhythm, don't you think? As Homer Simpson says, "Never to do today what you can put off until tomorrow."

I've been busy Thinking Thin on over yonder but now I've got to get back to the Cat. In the meantime, how the hell are you doing?

Long ago I abandoned my Abandoned Gloves of Scotland project. I was obsessed by all those single gloves on the streets of Edinburgh, so frozen and lonely. But I'd given up taking photos of them since most gloves were black and laying on dark backgrounds like cobblestones or pavement.

Thanks to global warming this winter has been much more photogenic. Gareth went walking in the Ochils, high above Castle Campbell. The air was crisp and the landscape was bright as he sat at atop the hill, sipping coffee from a thermos and rejoicing in the brief respite from his pesky wife.

It was on the descent that he spotted the glove sitting on top of a fence post, artfully arranged by some young punk.