Whilst BebBek continues to naval gaze, I would like to keep my sights set firmly ahead. Provided ahead of me struts the bearer of a firm male backside. Granted, the barer of a firm backside wouldn’t go amiss either.

British Boys don't have butts. Zero ass. Zilch bummage. No trouser-back filler. Their legs grow straight into their backs. It's the oddest thing. So BekBek, if you do happen to make it across the pond this Christmas we'll be hard-pressed to fill your stocking with a yummy British... correction (I've been given enough crap about this lately)... ENGLISH bottom. So much so that upon moving here, I was warned that if I were to spot a well-built hottie on this island, he'd likely be an Aussie or a Kiwi. The English Arse, in a manner of speaking, remained a mystery.

I have since discovered the Rugby bum, (or Sweet Sweet Ass.) It's funny what lengths a Welshman will go to when you deny him his bottom. But hey, if an entire team of rugger buggers feel the need for me to squeeze in order to make their point... who am I to argue? We'll leave the glory that is the Scottish kilt for another day. (And the Dublin accent is still my weakness.)

I could have inserted Helen and BekBek in lieu of Laziness and Procrastination, but we all know I’m the spring chicken in this terrible twosome so the question hardly leaves one to ponder. Unless of course, you start questioning which of us lead the race in failing to commence the pursuit of our potential. Are we actually all that bright, or can we continue to fool the world with caustic wit and profound insight without ever having to prove otherwise? We’re colourful characters in this universe. If this isn’t enough, can we not simply argue “Tough Titties!”?

Only those that know me will raise an eyebrow (and a swift backhander) when I sell myself as lazy, so I’m hardly offending the masses when so doing. That said, in bringing my friend down with me, you may very well question my quality of character and the nobility of my friendship. The fact is, I believe it is in recognizing our friends’ quirks, flaws and curious ways, and loving them all the same, that one builds a true friendship. Occasionally though, we can’t let our friends get away with allowing themselves to believe they’re meant to make certain mistakes. We won’t let one another lose sight of who we truly are.

This is what my mates and I delight in referring to as: “Calling each other on our shit”. This is that magical moment we’ve all experienced when we’ve got a better handle on our friends then they do during a particular moment of self delusion, and we’ve got no problem telling them so. We intervene in moments of nutty boy ponderings. After the hundred and twentieth excuse your friend comes up with for why “he didn’t call” you get her to snap out of it. When she says she’s not obsessing, you have shoe polish on standby. You’re also not going to let a good friend get away with giving up on herself. When you recognize that wickedly intelligent, refreshingly witty, unfathomably creative friend of yours is settling for less than she’s supposed to be doing in this world you get your boot ready.

As human beings, we’re programmed to seek the greatest reward for minimal effort. If we can get away with less stress, less late nights at work, less exercise, less putting in the effort and still receive all the kudos, promotions, fitness and accolades, then that’s just what we do. We do what we enjoy. The rest is work.

And so, when your best mate makes a choice you can’t back, you need to find a way to continue supporting that friend without supporting their decision. Easier said than done. That friendship then becomes work. And there’s nothing wrong with work – when you’re not lazy.

That’s me. Laziness personified. Perhaps I haven’t discovered my muse. Maybe I just need to be inspired. More honestly, I just need a kick up the arse. And a good friend will do that to you, for you even. What I need, is someone to keep me from clinging to the security blanket of laziness, an equally clever and imaginative mischief maker to prompt my inner scribe.

BekBek is that friend. Together, we’ll be bringing you our thoughts on life in the Sunshine State, The Big Smoke, personal beefs, boys, boobs and otherwise. And whilst we’re arguably a couple of tough chicks, I assure you all things breast related remain as soft, supple and delightfully bouncy as ever.