Three. Trois. Tres.

Blind Melon said three is a magic number. I'm not so sure myself. Super sweet video though.

I have to use a PC at work

I use a Mac at home

Perhaps if I used a typewriter another time, then in fact three would be the magic number.

1. This time last week I was into my seventh hour of drinking. I was half way through a stretch that saw me on my very knees the next day. It was the Grand National, what's a lady to do? Act demure? Sophisticated? If you'll pardon the pun, nay, nay. Have you been to Aintree? The Daily Mail captured the overall ambience of it all remarkably well in 'and they're off'. Streaky tans, figures crying out for Spanx and a level of intoxication that the local high street is used to 12 hours later. A heady mix of people-watching, pink champagne and watching races on the screen in the drinks tent. Despite being 75 steps from the course. 9.30am - 1.30am quaffing. Jesus.

In total the day cost me £300. I should've watched the neigh-neighs.

Male at work got the two that are sadly no longer with us is the sweepstake. I hope he's not a regular gambler.

2. A dear friend of mine turned a quart-century. The shade of her foundation has gained the title of Native American, the racism is removed as she's Chinese. It's all very hoo-hah. A cake was bought, it blew my mind.

3. I had a colonic. My digestive system is a devil. It was excellent, but did little. I certainly couldn't complain about the level of professionalism and service I received. Based in the Northern Quarter, Manchester, Spa Satori. The therapist was, though a chatterbox, clued up & had the gift of putting one at ease in a rather embarrassing situation. Amusing. Highly recommended.

It's Record Store Day. The pooch and I are off to rummage.

Iams. Not just for cats.

If you pop a 'Will' over the top it's a surname. Splash a little Michelle into the mix & you've a star.

From Dawsons Creek to present, she's not always got it right (who the honk has?). I feel that the media really appreciate her for her fashion ineptness, without emotional baggage. Wise move with My Week with Marilyn, even wiser fashion choices moving on from its release. No snore-inducing gushing chronological back-tracking; a simple top 4. From 2012.

From last nights Paris premiere, in Dior. Naturally. Article image from Daily Mail.

BAFTA awards gown, economic in H&M. Sure it wasn't off the peg, but flip it. Grazia had the scoop.

Golden Globe Awards, Jason Wu. A wit-wu. Image from Fab-Sugar.

Venice Film Festival, wu-wu-wu. Jason, couture custody for you push-pop. Fab Sugar ref again.

Veneration.

Vile Vuitton.

9 G&Ts last night.

Tender.

This hurt my eyes. Considerable amounts.

Found in Bournemouth. It's actually Vuitton. One question; why? Read the painful tale here.

S'Media killed the Privacy Star.

An ex of mine was featured in the Daily Snail today; 'Covered in tattoos and swigging a funnel of ale: Fresh pictures of the thug freed from court for showing remorse'. Catchy headline no?

Before you assume, my ex was not the 'thug', merely a dear chum of said thug.

I'll summarise the story. Three tattoo-laden boys (unemployed) are loitering, swigging cans & enjoying banter. Tanked up couple walk past, a sly look exchanged and alcohol fuelled arguement breaks out. Inked trio beat up (alleged) substance abuser. Injuries are sustained, trio hauled into court. 2 get off with community service & the other receives 27 months imprisonment.

Fair justice?

Lawyers doing their jobs is all.

Aside from knowing these males faces, I couldn't care less about the story. What has really shocked me, is the swiping of Social Media images and slapping on the tabloids virtual pages. Two, even three I can tolerate, but over 12? It's ridiculous.

Reporting is one facet, but has discriminating also leaked into the journalists job description?

Ink, tat, branding, call it what you like. It's a choice. A lifestyle choice. Recall me noting it was an ex? He's the one donning the blue hat.

I was disposed of through a cocktail of lack of tattoos, a hatred of thrash metal, and donning attire more Michelle Obama rather than Anette Johansson (of Shiva, whoever they are). Slight discrimination, but I wasn't going to call Teen Vogue or Mizz about it.

Chrapkowski (above) is spared prison, is jubliant about it and is made out to be an ale-swilling, white power hungry yob. I don't recall as many 'press' (Facebook) images being splashed and dragged through the mud when those involved in the riots were unduely spared sentences.

I sound like I care.

It's more the privicy invasion. Big Brother boundaries being breached. Surely The Daily Mail team have Z-list celebs to chase, you know, those who want a few crummy lines written about them. To tape into their portfolio/scrap book.

Perhaps we reveal too much? Social Media turns anti-social. I predict a riot.

Paper Trail.

That awkward moment when a housemate (disliked) jumps into the bathroom whilst you gather your towel in hand. Frustrating.

I was in the gym for 7, I've gone from feeling smug to deprived of my extra hour in bed.

Still, working 11-8, couldn't be classed as a way to make a living. Another awkward schedule I'd like to remedy. The nature of retail. Retail schme-tail.

Flicking aimlessly through the virtual pages of the Daily Mail (judge) I can't see the wood for all the bloody celebri-trees. I don't want hardcore political, or economical pounding, just a light summary littered with images. I couldn't care less about yo-yo Katona, who's left TOWIE (lie) or the pathetic attempts to explain why Wozza stole some cheese.

The paper's a snorefest. Still tomorrows fish papers. Are they allowed to do that anymore?