Too much information

You know how most folk have an internal dial that alerts them to the moment when they should wrap it up and keep the rest of their story to themselves? Yeah, mine is missing.

Today we got talking at work about hair removal. What a pain in the ass it quite literally is. All that shaving followed by itching, agonising waxing followed by rashes or dying - which just makes your mo look Swedish in origin but by no means hides it's thick dusky beauty.

I piped up with my Brazilian story. The one where the woman took me to new heights of pain and then announced that we were barely a quarter of the way through (and I am fair haired!!). The one where she showed me her fabulous creativity by holding up a mirror for me to admire my 'last plucked turkey in Tescos' crossed with little pre-pubescent girl look that I hadn't exactly been striving for. The one where I got many white headed spots sprouting pesky in-growing hairs in places I could barely reach as a reward for my troubles. Now at this point I should have stopped. But oh no, I was only warming up. I opened a dialogue about why we need pubic hair to funnel/direct urine as we wee. That with the absence of such hair we frankly piss like watering cans.

Cue much shuffling of scripts and frantic typing on computers - time for old CrummyMummy to wrap up the chat! But I blustered on almost demonstrating how pubic hair plays such an important role in a woman's life. I was just about to launch into my 'I would rather have a smear test than have a Brazilian again' chat when finally the dial clicked in and a warning light buzzed on in my brain. I retreated to my desk.

In disgust with a writer I once worked with I announced that I would rather have a smear than work with him again - 'point me to the stirrups' was my defining argument on that one - although I perhaps should have stopped short of clambering on a desk and portraying such a stance.

Often I will share my news with the office - my latest being that Sproglet has begun FINALLY to crap in his pot. Whilst a friend's daughter had brilliantly got into Oxford University that day - I was equally proud that my child had finally mastered where to poo - and felt the need to share my joy.

Marriage meltdowns, dreaming of obscenely young men with 9 inch tongues who breathe through their ears, hairy nipples, mucal plugs falling out, tampons getting lost internally, sex in phoneboxes - oh the range of my inappropriate conversations is vast.

Did I tell you the time that I.... maybe not. I'll save it for later, shall I?