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Was sitting on the toilet just now when I saw a mouse run down the hall. Will deal with this by keeping the toilet door closed in future.

Just wit­nessed the least sur­prising sugar meltdown since the Acme Nitrocellulose Film Co. moved its storage facility to Jamaica on the very same day that its sister company Acme Budget Fireworks sponsored the Caribbean’s first and only Guy Fawkes celebration.

My latest par­enting rev­el­ation is that you shouldn’t ask someone if they’ve wiped their bottom unless you’re pre­pared for an imme­diate, demon­strative browneye.

Thought I’d found a spare, unused nappy on the floor! Now imagine the most extreme pos­sible antonym for ‘unused’, and com­prehend my horror.

Last.fm is refusing to acknow­ledge that at 12.14 on Friday night I listened to ‘Things That Make You Go Hmm’ by C+C Music Factory.

Is the ‘con’ in ‘chili con carne’ short for ‘consequences’?

Home is where any reas­onably accessible and com­fortable hori­zontal surface is.

Objects I have mis­taken for toast today include: a coaster, a pack of cards, my phone, a slice of untoasted bread.

My daughter has invented a new game, called ‘Is this my bottom?’ Rules: Point to any part of your body which is not your bottom and ask ‘Is this my bottom’? Winner: Everyone.

I keep going to put my phone in my pocket, but I have no pocket, because I’m wearing no pants.

I can’t decide whether ‘too much pizza’ is an oxy­moron or a tautology.

It was only later that I realised the dis­ad­vantages of eating a dozen oysters before getting on the plane.

Is there a sultan of Bruny Island?

Just had to clean up a urine spill (in a wardrobe, no less), in the course of which I stubbed my toe on a xylo­phone shaped like a dog.

I knew I shouldn’t have crossed that peccary with that arma­dillo. I have too many pec­ca­dilloes as it is.

My daughter and I are playing super­heroes. She has a sequinned cape, kneepads and a sword; I have a pink shawl and a handbag with a toy spanner with it.

Highlights of this year’s Royal Melbourne Show: a sign at the dog show which simply read ‘BITCH’; a man being set on fire; a sheep with enormous bollocks.

There’s some­thing charming about spam email pre­fixed with ‘Re:’. It’s as though the sender is being par­tic­u­larly sincere in responding to my queries about ‘raw power’ and ‘massive rods’.

Things I wish I’d known before dis­robing for the shower: that the shower door was broken, and that it would take an extended period of grunting, swearing and bending over to get it back on its rollers again.