I am sorry to have to report that Barb's mum (and the erstwhile mother in law of The Builder's) Hilda May died this morning. The death was not unexpected. She was in her 90s and had been ill for a very long time with dementia and since before Christmas with a ferocious chest infection. So I suppose that it's something of a relief. But still sad, nonetheless.

In the meantime, Stella had caused me a tiny tad of dismay by drawing my attention to an obit in The Age for Bill Gillies. For a second or so, my eyes didn't register the somewhat significant "(senior)" in her email. Briefly, I thought she was drawing my attention to an obit for Will - who was an extremely beautiful young man that I dallied with for a couple of years in my youth. Fortunately, it was for his octogenarian father (although I don't suppose that Mr Gillies Senior would have thought it was particularly fortunate).

And I think Richard would be pleased if I were to tell you that he didn't actually call me hideously fat. Or not in so many words. He called me a Woolly Mammoth. He says that this was a reference to the very bright, rainbow striped, very warm, cuddly and snuggly jumper I was wearing at the time. However, I can't see how it could be interpreted in any other way than as a veiled reference to post-Christmas portliness. Although - my tape measure says that far from putting on weight over Christmas, I might have lost half a centimetre around my waist. Given the excessive overindulgence of food an alcohol and the inadequacy of the exercise levels between Christmas and New Year, I fear that my tape measure may be lying to me!