My most sincere regrets to: Public Enemy; Deborah Moggach, director Joseph Ruben & executive producer Jeffrey Chernov. And to anyone who might have been expecting a quicker update than in, what, 8 months?


"Erik smash!"

"Erik, use the damn microwave!"

"Erik CHOP!"

Sigh. He still hasn't really come to terms with the concept of cooked food. A life devoted to foraging for patrons' leftovers and the occasional small mammal has not exactly set him up for cohabitation with a Smeg kitchen.

"What's wrong with how I eat? Look at me! I'm fine"

"Yes, you're a paragon of health. But, my little Ratsnatcher, frozen meat really should be thawed first, before you start chomping. And I don't think throwing it at the window or other threats of blunt force are really the best ways to go about it, hmm?"

I am worried about him, I admit it. I am also worried about the smell, however, and in this 2 horse race, my sinus passages win out over "for better or worse". And so I have naturally decided to relocate to my favourite hydrotherapy retreat. As for Erik – he doesn't cope very well at those few times I follow through on the primal urge to flee and leave him. Last time (a simple three day trek to procure the perfect fire-screen. In Marrakech) I returned only to find a rather confrontational neighbour standing guard by a beaver-lodge of refuse, skillfully erected at the front entrance. Apparently my husband had taken to hiding within and sulking to the sounds of, alternately, The Backstreet Boys and Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique. Took me 20 minutes to flush him out.

And now, here I am again. Leaving.

"Why must you go, my Goddess Divine?" he whines. And gnaws.

"Erik, it's not like you won't have company! I'm leaving BECAUSE our rather permanent guests are making this place unlivable."

"But I am almost finished" he wheedles "they are all cured, they need only to be refilled and posed and voila! Art is born!"

Well, be that as it may, I am determined to take my now apparently Philistine personage away from the offending installations. Raoul and I (yes, Raoul) are heading to the mountains for a spell. Turns out the de Chagny boys have exquisite taste in therapeutic bathing institutions – and they always seem to find the most darling gifts-with-purchase! Unfortunately, I have to keep my spa-buddy's identity a secret. Erik never forgave him for the whole "Operation Basement Liberation" thing. On top of that, Mr E has developed something of a penchant for conspiracy theories of late. Namely, any way he can possibly pin something on Raoul. So as far as he's concerned, I'm swanning off with some cipher named "Susan".

"Hey, I'm just about ready to go, can you help me put the stuff in the car?"

"SHHHIAMWATCHINGTHEMOVIECANITNOTWAITUNTILTHEADBREAKWOMAN!" (and chomp)

"Erik! You know very well DVDs do not include advertising breaks! That's what product-placement is for. Now, put down the t-bone. And. Help. Me."

"Fine! Whatever! Whatever! But if I miss anything big just so you can get your shrapnel massage –"

"Hot stone massage!"

" – whatever! There will be consequences! Consequences I tell you!"

"Or, you could press 'pause' on the remote"

"Yeah, yeah yeah, less talking more going"

The retreat was sumptuous, and, more importantly, sweetly fragranced. But all retreats must be ended at some point. Eventually you must stand your ground or be routed. So to speak. So, bearing arms of essential oils and air fresheners, we set out for the journey home. It was a pleasant drive; right up until the Mack truck clipped our rear bumper…

Kill Report #3

There will be no Kill Report this week. Life is Sacred. Freaks.