In the next 14 hours (i.e., by bedtime), I have to write one (1) conference paper, one (1) lecture on why cultural theory is eating its own foot, prepare one (1) three-hour (3-hour) seminar on Janet Frame's autobiographies, mark one (1) batch of honours student essays, reply to seventeen (17) emails, procure four (4) essential grocery items, prepare myself spiritually for the settlement on one (1) apartment (Tuesday!) and suitcasily for (1) trip to Newcastle, aka Conferenceville. I also need to wash my sheets, in which I have been living for the past few weeks so as to avoid having to get out the heater and break my No Heater Until June rule. And not to go on about the demands on my time, but there's also a sweet potato on my window sill all set to turn into a triffid if I don't eat it today. Today, I tell you. A triffid.
So, in lieu of writing something proper, here's a SHOCK NUDE CELEBRITY PIC WITH MYSTERY HANDS.
Rumours that Wilbur is, in fact, pregnant await confirmation.