Last night Mr Knees and I decided a quick trip to our local shopping mecca was in order.

Pants needed to be tailored, hair needed to be cut and let’s face it, what else do married people do on a Friday night?!

So to the fashion capital (Chadstone) we went. It’s here you should note that nothing, literally nothing, makes me more excited than entering this building.

Now usually when Mr Knees gets a trim, I stay at home, it’s not something I generally need to hold his hand through. On this occasion however, I tagged along. Partly because I had nothing else to do and partly because had I have strayed I may have maxed out our credit card.

Mr Knees doesn’t have a regular hairdresser/barber so just goes where there’s no line and it’s less than $30. Last night I found a place which cuts men hair for “just $48”. FORTY EIGHT DOLLARS, I had to sit down.

Anywho, he rocked into a place with a sign out the front stating “men’s $20 cuts”, perfect.

Or was it?

I don’t know what it is but sometimes when people start talking to me, I don’t even think they realise how much they are about to let slip.

This woman, holding a razor to Mr Knees’ head, had obviously had a long day. But the conversation that followed left us all quite shocked.

It started as any salon convo usually does ‘how was your day?’. It was probably at this point we should have abandoned any further discussion.

The hairdresser launched into a D&M about life, her life. Her marriage break down, her kids, being overworked, her parents, money loans, you name it – she was hanging out that laundry at the speed of knots, leaving no stone unturned.

Five minutes in and we had discovered she was living in the same house as her ex (but they hadn’t slept together in at least five years), unable to leave for a range of reasons, but mainly because of her two children. It was here I found myself offering advice. Mr Knees on the other hand was looking panic-stricken and super uncomfortable, probably because she was tossing around razors and scissors while looking at me.

We were there for perhaps 15 minutes. I may not have known her name, but I knew everything else.

Upon leaving she apologised for her rant, but I told her not to be silly and wished her all the best, while also reiterating the need for her to remove herself from the situation, and we went on our merry way.

The minute we walked out Mr Knees was like ‘What the f*** just happened?’ I was like ‘I’m not sure, but are you happy with your hair?’.

He finds it crazy that people tell people (particularly me) the things they do. I think maybe I have face that says ‘tell me EVERYTHING, NOW, and don’t forget the juicy shit’.

So peeps, what personal secret have you let slip/or been slipped by someone you didn’t know from a bar of soap?

There’s an issue at work.

I’m not sure how to address it so after thinking long and hard, I decided the answer was to write about it.

It’s the toilets. The female toilets. I know, when I first said that you were thinking I’d been sneaking into the men’s again.

Anyway, a few weeks ago I went into the bathrooms at my place of work where there are four female toilets located. For the sake of this we will call them toilets 1, 2, 3 and 4.

Toilet 1 is situated right behind the door that opens up to let you into the toilet block, so isn’t used by many people due to inconvenience, obviously. Toilet 2 has a dodgy light so for those of us fearing a flickering beam, it’s a second choice. Toilet three is most often engaged and using toilet four looks like you’re hiding something.

On this particular day all toilets were empty so I had my pick of the bunch. I selected number 3. I walked in, and immediately walked out. There were what I shall only describe as ‘leftovers’. I then went into toilet 2. Not even the dodgy light could hide the state of this loo. Wrappers and toilet paper covered the floor and there were droplets of you-know-what on the seat. Seriously, are you marking your territory? Toilet 4 was next. Now here’s where it gets strange. The toilet had clearly been used because there was wees in the loo. However, despite there being ample toilet paper there was none in the bowl. WHAT?! WHO THE HELL IS USING THESE TOILETS? Either we’ve got someone who’s a little confused, a chronic environmentalist or someone who doesn’t understand that flush is not just a gambling term.

Since then there’s been one disaster after another and I no longer feel safe going to the loo at work. Let alone the fact that when I do go, I have to resist the urge to tell everyone on the way out that I wasn’t responsible for any of the carry on in there, especially not the hair. Don’t ask.

Ok, I’ll tell you but only because you asked. There has been TWO occasions so far where nasty hair has been left on the seat. ARE YOU PULLING IT OUT? How the hell does it end up there? It’s just awkward and weird and I feel like no-one needs to be part of that.

What strikes me most is I work in a corporate office, with grown women. Do they do this in their own bathrooms?

It’s got to the point where I think it would be safer using the men’s, or even the public food court one downstairs. I know, surely that is the last resort.

So I’m leaving this one with you guys. What do I do? Put up a sign saying ‘ladies, are you kidding me?’ or potentially cause some form of internal damage and just not go at all?

Anyone who knows me will tell you I can’t stand bananas.

They are disgusting. They smell revolting, they look weird, and don’t even bother coming near me if you’re in possession of one. I don’t want to know about it, and I’m sure I can give our friendship a miss if you insist on eating one when I’m around.

However . . . it’s now I must confess I recently ate one.

I’m pretty sure most of my friends/family think I’m with child because there is NO other logical reason I would do this. Alas, I am not up the duff, but merely curious, and a wee bit health obsessed.

You see, it’s been 16 years since one of these long yellow fruits has made its way past my lips. I’m talking no muffins, cakes, lollies, smoothies – nothing.

I can tell you this because I remember the exact moment I decided enough was enough.

Nikki, aka mum, was a banana feen.

I had bananas for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I had them whole, mashed, cut into bits. I had them on toast, in porridge, on ice-cream and made into ‘chips’. You name it, I ate it.

I was just 11 years old when I made the life-changing decision. No more bananas.

I said ‘Nikki, we’ve got to talk. It’s about these bananas. That’s it. It’s over. I want to say that it was good while it lasted, but I can’t. I want to say we’ll stay friends, but we won’t. I want to say it’s not your fault, but it is. You did this. Now you shall live with the consequences. Oh, and also, don’t bring that s**t inside this house again or we’ll be having words’.

From that day forward they virtually became extinct. Well, until about two months ago.

I had been have a few internal food fights and was in a bit of a pickle about what I could and couldn’t eat. I had randomly thrown the idea of bananas out into the universe, and funnily enough it was Mr Knees who managed to sway me.

He sent me a link to an article, filled with an obscene number of reasons to eat them and I couldn’t deny myself any longer.

Bananas are like the God of the fruit world. They are packed with iron, energy, fibre, potassium and EVERYTHING.

Any-who, Mr Knees and I were strolling up the road a few weeks ago when he suggested perhaps it was time. I agreed and a banana was purchased.

We then made our way back to the busy carpark to eat the banana. He wanted to eat it in the car, but I was adamant that wasn’t happening for fear of the car smelling. So we stood in the carpark while Mr Knees peeled it. Then I refused to eat the first bit, and the bit after that. Until I found a clean looking bit, which had to be hand fed to me. No way was I touching it.

I imagine my face to be like that of a small baby trying lemon for the first time. But after the initial shock, I’ll admit it was ok.

Since then I’ve probably eaten about eight. Sometimes I put them in smoothies and sometimes I eat them with Greek yoghurt. Last week I ate a couple by themselves. I still don’t like touching it so it’s a bit of a process, usually involving a knife and fork and half a box of tissues.

Needless to say, while it might look strange, I am now a banana eater. I have faced my fears head on and come out the other side to tell you this tale.

Also I just feel super cool saying ‘I’m hungry, I think I’ll eat a banana’. People definitely think I’m a health god.