I've never in my life played Guitar Hero, nor do I really have any desire to, but this review of GH3 is so funny I sort of want to fire the entire world for not telling me about it sooner. (Sound essential, so possibly not to be watched in the office, especially if any of your colleagues are within earshot and the types to be offended by phrases like "cock-slapping the Mona Lisa".)

The term "nasal delivery technology" in an advertisement regarding erectile dysfunction is almost guaranteed to make me boggle.

I almost forgot one of the highlights of my family Christmas visit, which was when I was jerked from slumber at 5 in the morning by the smoke alarm going off (along with everyone else in the house) only to discover that it had been caused by a gecko sitting in the apparatus. (Presumably going, "Dude! WHAT THE FUCK?!")

Melbourne is stuck in what passes for summer down here, by which the meteorological society means: a roughly week-long cycle comprising two or so hideously hot days when the wind blows from the north in a manner reminiscent of a hairdryer, followed by a cool change bringing a few days of cold wind, possible rain and 24-degree maxima.

Today being one of the hideously hot days (41 degrees or thereabouts) I decided to indulge in some retail therapy on the basis that it would also be air-conditioned therapy, and that was all good. Plus, I have Christmas money to spend, because apparently I am still 12.

Justin Timberlake was stalking me through the DFO. In one store, he was bringing sexy back. In the next, he was crying me a river. I thought that since he was hanging around her could at least be helping, but he didn't like any of the pairs of pants I was trying on either. The problem, really, is that designers seem to take for granted that all women will be wearing four-inch heels with their reasonably-nice pants, results. I'm not a short girl, and I find puddling about with a handspan of pant-leg under my feet makes me feel like I'm dressing up in my mother's clothes again.

(Maybe I am still 12 and everyone's just being very polite about my being-27 delusion...)

Oh, just get them taken up! the useful-women brigade declares. But the vast majority of these pants had natty little cuff arrangements that rather got in the way of such endeavours. Yea verily I was close to the despair that is wearing jeans for the rest of my life. But eventually - with no assistance from Master Timberlake, might I add - I found a pair of pants that did actually fit around the arse (and I am not a hippy girl, so I can only imagine the despair some girls experience in the changerooms), didn't require feats of levitation and didn't require a second mortgage to purchase.

Of course, they are rather wide in the leg, and my first thought upon checking myself out in the changeroom mirror was, "I'm going to have to listen to more drum'n'bass and take more speed," but such are the sacrifices we make to Dame Fashion!

Every girl's favourite shopping list:

• Feminine hygiene products
• Panadol
• A litre of cookies 'n' cream ice cream