Hestia ... says goodbye to

1 ... worrying about things that will NEVER happen.
Today, for example, I wasted a good 10 minutes of my life wondering how I would survive being buried in an avalanche (FYI: I would keep my hands close to my face so that I can push away snow and create a breathing space and try to determine which way was up, by trying to get a little of the snow to fall on my face.  Or not)

This sort of shit has GOT TO STOP.

Hestia shares 10 internet sites

The internet:
Addictive as crack cocaine
necessary as breathing

I am thoroughly enjoying my weekly Digital Sabbath.  So much so, I might extend it to TWO days!

But the intertubes are not entirely barren of worthwhile sites.  So here are 10 that I'd like to share with you that enrich my life on a regular basis.

Hestia and Sonshine's....social dancing

Don't dance with her -
she's being a twat

When I was at school, we just used to call it Dancing and it heralded, for me at any rate, the magical dream-time when A Boy Might Actually Fancy Me and the Frock Frenzy that was the Christmas School Dance.

Back at secondary school we were all shepherded in to the Games Hall in the middle of the school building.  It had a high vaulted ceiling and smelled strongly of decomposing rubber matting. Or teenage boys.  I could never tell the difference.

Hestia's...addiction (not Facebook)

When Winter is cold and fresh with pixar blue skies and frosty crunching underfoot, I do love it.  However, when it is dreich (dreary + grey + damp + cold) I start to feel miserable.

The sort of miserable that only a packet of Kitkats can soothe.

And it has been dreich for DAYS.

This is why I woke up this morning to find my tummy resting on the mattress next to me, like a newly-born puppy.

Hestia is...too thin. But only on paper

I am off to Italy next Easter and I cannot WAIT. Every day I'm looking at images of the Best Places To Eat...ice-cream, pasta, milanese risotto etc etc etc.

If I'm like this in December, I'll need scraped off the ceiling by the time I have to get myself on a flight.

Anyhoo, my passport has expired.

I duly got another form and completed it, resplendent with two reasonably life-like photos for my new book.  My friend's husband signed the photos and today was the day that I tootled down to the post office to have them check it over before I posted it.

The service costs £8.00 and they EARNED it today, dear reader, because I made them WORK FOR IT.