I phoned my sexiest friend the other day.
“Here, la,” says I, lounging on silk sheets in a pink push up bra and French knickers. “Should we hit the town later or what?”

Dear Lily,
Go away. Just … go away.
Yours, Sweary

Out Of Office Auto Reply: Please be aware that Mr. Manuel Estimulo is otherwise engaged for the next couple of weeks. Sweary shall take the floor today in his absinthe. Should you require further assistance, …

As my most devoted followers will know (big shout-out there to mah peeps in Arbour Hill!), I turned vegetarian about ten months ago, give or take the odd mix-up in the McDonalds order.

And I have …

I live in Irish Suburbia – in a satellite town outside a stunted city, in a housing estate surrounded by countless other housing estates, each one as wholesomely boring as the next. And, like any …

Y’know, I don’t trust this Coir crowd.

Sure how could I? There they are, circling the streets, each moving with the grace of a starving pterodactyl, each as unflappable as Chris De Burgh’s ego. Their posters …

I’m a lover of eloquent words, a believer in the destructive power of a timely quip, or the restorative properties of a beautifully-turned compliment. But I’m also … of a certain age. And I can’t …

Friends, readers, new mammies who typed cuddlepot.com incorrectly, I’d like to put to you a theory that you may find contentious, even contemptible.