MirandaDevine.com

It’s a great day for thousands of lowlife alcoholic child abusers today, as Kevin Rudd’s booze money wings its way through the ether to bank accounts across the western suburbs. All across Australia, brickie’s labourers will be celebrating with a trip down to the pub, followed by a stop-in at the local bordello for a quickie from a diseased slapper, before heading home to bash the long-suffering missus.

What a victory for Labor! What a disappointment for Middle Australia.

All the family values that Mr Howard fought for years to uphold have been thrown out the window in the past twelve months, thanks to the rabid bunch of lefties, lesbians and labour unionists who are now farting their policies through our once-glorious parliament. Meanwhile, the economy is falling in a heap thanks to Swan’s stupidity, it is no longer safe to walk the streets of Sydney at night, and boatloads of boat people are on the verge of driving house prices through the roof once more!

Now is the time when we must hear the voice of the conservative loud and clear through the noise of the chattering classes. No longer can we afford to sit and watch as Julia Gillard hands away our hard-earned prosperity to radical fringe groups, such as the Aborigines, the environmentalists and the working classes. What Australia needs to get us through these tough times is real vision: tax cuts for the rich; longer working hours for the poor; and mandatory work for the dole programs to get some decent rail infrastructure built. We’re paying all these layabouts to lounge around at home, while the rest of us have to sit in traffic because there is not enough public transport to get the poor people off the roads! It must end now.

Friends, I have returned from the wilderness to lead the conservative revival. Lazarus with a quadruple bypass I am not, but I promise rekindle the good work of Miranda Gloriosa Esmerelda Agapanthus Bonhilde Diamond Devine and put the sword to the Queenslanders who are currently purporting to run the country. Plus, I’m angling for some more taxpayer-funded trips to go and chat up the spunks in our defense force!

Toodles!

xx Miranda

There has been a lot of foul moaning from the louche left here at Fairfax, regarding the selection of 9 steaming hot man-minds amongst the ten-member 2020 gab-fest leadership team. Thankfully, I have used my connections to ensure that the Mike Carltons of the world do all their reporting from a leaky closet in the basement, and hence the moaning is somewhat muffled.

The added bonus of this relocation is that the chance of me having to endure to fetid stench of a leftie in an elevator is greatly reduced - my personal diesel-powered elevator is located next to my gold-plated parking space, while the vegan cyclists are confined to the other side of the building. Glorious!

What does all this have to do with Cate Blanchette, you may ask? Indeed, some of you may be accusing me of using her just to increase my hits from people searching for naked celebrity photos. Never! This blog written with the highest ethical and professional standards in mind.

Cate is, of course, the sole femme fatale who will be appearing at the 2020 summit. Unbeknownst to the left, K-Rudd in fact begged me to take a leadership role. Fortunately I had a prior engagement, watching that hunk of man meat Ricky Ponting taking part in a real Twenty20 summit, namely the Indian Premier League.

K-Rudd’s gas-fest is, a posteriori, merely a cover. Insiders close to the PM have revealed that he plans to spend the entire weekend reading back issues of my column, thus at once understanding and solving every problem facing Middle Australia. No longer will he have to look to the Howard Government to apportion blame - he will understand the threefold scourges of our society: lefties, loners and labradors.

If we are to truly move forward as a society, we must lock these groups up. I have started the ball rolling with my colleagues at Fairfax, now it is up to Middle Australia to take up the chant. No longer shall we be bothered with single mothers clogging up our streets with four-wheel-drive prams. No longer shall we be afraid to go outside, lest we step in some foul canine excreta.

(Manuel, my perennial rooftop immigrant, is now falling behind in his gutter-cleaning duties due to the demands of scraping faeces off my heels).

Anyhow, I must rush off - I have an expose to write on drunken St Patrick’s day revellers. How dare they clog up the bars all day, forcing me to queue for my chardonnay?

Toodles!

xx Miranda

….Mr Howard. I just couldn’t go on. I could not carry the torch any longer for you. I lost my grip and I feel my flock slipping away from me, into the interminable darkness of Leftist Limbo.

Great Rudd from the Sky came to visit me earlier this week. I was basking on the sunbed, enjoying the glorious sunshine and listening to some Eagles songs on my Ipod. When he came down, the clouds gathered swiftly and the sky turned dark. Lightning lashed the heavens and it began to rain. Everywhere, the shreiks of winged vegan homosexuals rang through the air, crying “Say you’re Sorry! Say you’re Sorry!”

Then he was upon me, his piggy eyes flaming red and his cherubim face steely cold, his teeth bloodied from his morning feast of Wilson Tuckey a la King . Circling high above was the Witch Gillard, disguised as a pterodactyl. “RAAARK! RAAAARK!!!! Destroy her, Great Rudd!”

Ugh! How I hate that woman! Hideous leftist beast!

Then he spoke, once again in Mandarin.
“I ask you this question: what are you doing, Miranda Devine?”
“Listening to the Eagles”, I said, defiantly. “‘Chillaxing’, as the slovenly leftist hordes might put it. Trying to pretend that you’re not here.”
Great Rudd from the Sky seemed to ignore the tone of my voice. “The Eagles?” he said, “When it comes to the Eagles, I ask myself the following question: am I a fan of them? The answer is, of course, yes. ‘Take It Easy’ is indeed a classic track.”
I sniggered at this. ‘Take It Easy’ is certainly the anthem of the louche stoner left. “That figures”, I remarked snidely.

“Miranda”, Rudd said, “you Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses? You been out riding fences for so long now. Oh, you’re a hard one, I know that you got your reasons, these things that are pleasing you can hurt you somehow.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Great track, Desperado really is. I ask myself this question though: is ‘Take It Easy’, ‘Hotel California’ or ‘Desparado’ the better song?
“Hotel California all the way.”
“RAAAAARK!!!! Desperado! Desperado!” It was the Witch Gillard.
“Shut up, you left leaning bong smoking emaciated pelican”, I bellowed, but the Witch Gillard ignored this. She had removed a packet of dried meat from her lesbian wallet to munch on. The package read: ‘Padraic McGuiness Jerky - Incorrectly Preserved for 60-something Years’. I stifled vomit.

“What do you want, Rudd? Fuck off and let me bask in peace. Why don’t you go and bother those corrupt pricks over at NSW Labor?” The Great Rudd’s eyes flashed ruby red. He was not a fan of NSW Labor.
“Your insolence is intolerable, Miranda Devine! I have heard on the grapevine that the villain Johnny Boy is over in the United States, spreading poisonous lies about me. Do you have anything to do with this?”
“No. I just report the facts. I am of unprecedented journalistic integrity and literary ability.”
“Hmmm”, said the Great Rudd from the Sky, apparently perplexed, “we shall see. But in the meantime, I’ll have you know that I’ve got spies everywhere. Watch your back, Miranda Devine”
“Oh yeah?” I shot back, “Well I haven’t seen any of these so-called spies at recent Quadrant dinners.”
“RAAAAAARKK! I’m eating one right now!” It was the Witch Gillard, munching on her P.P McGuinness jerky. “YUMMEEEEEHHHHH!! RAAAAAAAARK! He worked for us!”
The sinking feeling that yawned out of the pit of my stomach boiled and bubbled and exploded into a paroxysm of rage. Not Paddy… How dare she! I seized my blunderbus from under the sunbed and blasted crackshot in the general direction of the figures in the sky. Again and again I fired, screaming obscenities until they were gone. But the sky remained dark, and the shreiking leftist hordes of flying vegan hermaphrodites started to throw pomegranates at me. I took cover from the roof.

Where art thou, Alexander Downer? Save me from this scourge that has become Middle Australia!

Toodles!!
xx Miranda

Kevin Rudd:

• Eats babies;
• Made a sex tape with Paris Hilton;
• Rides a bicycle on motorways;
• Smells of Elderberries;
• Is the lovechild of Justice Kirby and Peter Garrett;
• Doesn’t watch reality television;
• Associates with communist vegan;
• Donates to Greenpeace;
• Assaults old ladies with cucumbers;
• Practises BDSM;
• Espouses Bolshevik policy;
• Had a threesome with Beth Morgan and Joe Scimone;
• Wears Therese Rein’s underwear to cabinet meetings;
• Reads Joe Hildebrand’s column;
• Listens to Enya;
• Subscribes to the Green Left Weekly;
• Worships Paul Keating; and
• Owns a hybrid vehicle.

So there.

Smug git.

Dear readers, I return from the Bahamas to bring you a tale of despair, decreptitude and dereliction.

During my brief absence, the nation has descended into obloquy. I deem that the responsible parties shall be named and shamed: Harbhajan Singh; Peter Roebuck; Kevin Rudd MP and His Excellency Philip Michael Jeffrey AC, CVO, MC. The quadrumvirate of bungsnatchery have yet again teamed up to pile mound after mound of suppurative dreck over the good citizens of Middle Australia.

Cricket Australia had the good decency to invite the Indians over for a nice game of cricket and (possibly) a hot cup of tea. The least we could expect is for the little brown bastards to be polite, keep to themselves and keep their vindaloo sauce confined to the post-match celebrations. However, all they can think to do is dish out verbal abuse to Andrew Symonds - a Queenslander, but nevertheless a decent Australian.

And then, to make matters worse, instead of immediately declaring war on India, our PM goes and publicly chastises the Australians for their bad behaviour, most likely seeking to lay blame for the incident squarely on our dearly departed John Howard. The G-G it seems has also been paid off to get in on the Aussie-bashing, a travesty in itself since he was appointed by the little master (John, not Sachin) himself.

And speaking of blame shifting, we have now experienced, on average, six rate rises per year since the Labor government was elected! (I didn’t study mathematics at university for nothing.) And yet Mr Rudd is still trying to blame the greatest PM in living history for the current shambolic state of the economy. The day before the election, the nation’s plasma tellys were bright and burning, and yet cagey Kev will have you believe that the Liberal party built some kind of time bomb into the economy, set to explode as soon as they toppled. Preposterous!

It seems that the new PM has an organ to grind, and he’s not going to stop until he has brainwashed the whole of Middle Australia into selling their Toyota Monstrosities and sending all their money over to fund the Harbhajan Sledging Academy. The worst part is that he has the perennial prevaricator Paul “Pantywaist” Keating on his side, and the Glorious Coalition of Business-Lunch Journalists has had its numbers decimated by the death of our beloved leader and founder, Padraic McGuinness.

My dear readers, I fear that 2008 will be a year of great conflict and strife. The very essences of good and evil will fight an epic battle in our newspaper columns, and I am glad to have you all of the side of the eventual victors. We cannot allow the chattering classes to turn the tide of public opinion, plunging Sydney straight back into the horrors of the 80s. We must stand united, side by side, or preferably seated opposite one another in a trendy cafe sipping chardonnay.

Do not fear, my dear readers, for you will not have to make this arduous journey alone. I, Miranda Gloriosa Esmerelda Agapanthus Diamond Devine, have returned to shine the light, as only I can. It may be the year of the rat, but the rats currently residing in the Lodge will never defeat Middle Australia. Just as Menzies had eight years in the wilderness before his triumphant second term, Howard shall rise from the ashes. Johnny 2010!

Marxine McKew: she is no Santa Claus…she’s a Bolshevik dissident!

Merry Christmas to all who agree with me! To the leftist vegan fairies celebrating paganistic Yuletide with their same-sex partners: I hope Santa takes a big, steaming, milk and arrowroot biscuit-flavoured turd in your Christmas pudding. I also hope you spend the season resolving to take a right-hand turn. Middle Australia demands it.

Peace on Earth, I say! Well, Peace on Earth when it is cost effective and advantageous to Our Way of Life.

To Marxine McKew: I hope your Christmas really sucks. I see you there, you evil communist, prancing around John Howard’s electorate wearing a red hat. I know what you’re up to. The red hat is not about Santa Claus and you’re not spreading Christmas cheer. You’re spreading subversive socialist dogma! I’ve got my eye on you, Marxine. I’ll eat you for breakfast.

I’ve set up a most fantastic tree, dear readers. I ordered a most terrific black market Wollemi pine on EBay. The bonus: I got to stand there with my blunderbuss and blast all the possums they shook out of it before decorating! Glorious!

A warning to all Middle Australians at this time of year: your rampant (and gloriously deserved) consumption may be causing your credit cards to melt and pangs of guilt to creep into your highly intelligent brains. Beware: this is when Salvation Army members and leftist collectors from Barnardos for Kids will strike and try to take your money, lining the pockets of dole bludging piggieswigglers from here to Budgewoi.

Do not encourage this scourge. Remember this: Credit Cards equal free money. Feel no guilt. You deserve a new plasma TV. Reginald the Pensioner in the wheelchair who lives in the caravan down the road doesn’t need your charity and goodwill: he needs a job.

Of course, I’ve been doing my part, patrolling my own neighbourhood and mowing down vegan doorknockers and do-gooder charity collectors on sight. As I stealthily cruise in my Toyota Monstrosity, I’ve been most impressed by the glittering glory of McMansions covered in lights. A most schmaltzy and delightful spectacle, glimmering in Americanised glamour! My favourite so far: a giant airconditioning unit lit up as Frosty the Snowman. Genius!

Quite taken by the urge to better my fellow Middle Australians, I myself have purchased 200,000 fairy lights. The immigrants on the roof are installing them this minute.

What’s that, vegan greenie killjoys? My lights are bad for the environment? Hah! I’ll have you know my lights are running on 100% green power: I’ve installed a Mongolian in the garage who is pedalling furiously, 24 hours a day!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!!

Toodles!!
xx Miranda

Dangerous hippies congregating in public plazas: this will be the outcome if Clover the Terrible gets her way.

Without the Eye of the Glorious John Winston Howard, the pestilence of the Left has spread. Teenage gothics with vile painted fingernails are pelting me with organic bananas wherever I go. ASIO is not returning my calls, despite my repeated pleas to have these dangerous nincompoops shot on sight. They used to arrest anyone I made even the slightest mention of.

A case in point: That dastardly Clover “Leftist Nanny Goat of Doom” Moore is at it again - trying to turn Sydney into a strawberry field for hippies and yak herders. This time the evil lesbian overlord of utopian anti-progress has temporarily put down her bong to recruit the world’s foremost tripped-out pantsgoblin of public piazzas, Jan Gehl. A snotty, opinionated Euro, so I’m told. No doubt a raging artiste and problematic dissident. Most certainly a hideous character with a penchant for Ikea and a little too much bratwurst. The thought makes me bilious. Gyah. Vomitous, in fact.

Mr Gehl, somewhat confused by the notion that in Miranda’s Middle Australia, Cars Fucking Rule, has descended from on high to proclaim that we should close down the CBD. He suggests that honest, Middle Australian vehicles make way and allow feminist dog-walkers to take over, for all eternity. Mr Gehl, I have this to say to you: Thank you for climbing down from your mushroom to present us with your psychadelic, Bono-inspired views on the world. However, Sydney has no need for Alice in Wonderland-style caterpillar characters, smoking hookah and delivering grand theories on how to run our glorious metropolis. Kindly go and play in the traffic, you odious, hideous architect of the destruction of Our Way of Life.

This isn’t Copenhagen, this is a cosmopolitan city! I’ve never visited Copenhagen, but by the sounds of it, Copenhagen is painfully boring. Bike riding is for vegans and people who live on flat terrain. How dare this jellyheaded hornswoggler, Jan Gehl, tell me to make my own way up hills. This little Danish gnome thinks that we should become better athletes by walking and biking more often. Here’s the tip, Mr Gehl: Michael Schumacher is the greatest athlete alive. You don’t see Michael Schumacher walking up hills. Michael Schumacher drives up hills at maximum speed!

This is Middle Australia, and I am Miranda Esmerelda Agapantha Gloriosa Schumacher Diamond Devine!!

The creation of public piazzas will only spell disaster for our excellent city. Everybody knows that in today’s Australia, public property is for people who can’t afford private property, and the public can’t afford people who can’t afford private property. They will be havens for homeless troglodytes and prostitution by all manner of High Court Justices! They will be filled with grubby little children, waging wars against their parents in Lord of the Flies military coups!

Picture the outcome, Middle Australians: your children, out past bedtime, having orgies with High Court Justices firing machine guns in public piazzas, with only Joe “Unemployed” Hildebrand and the dirty local buskers as babysitters.

Did I mention the buskers!? Those hideous noiseboxes of postmodern smut? Warbling out their songs of dissent from their electric guitars?

The last thing Australia needs is another Bono.

Toodles!
xx Miranda

The Previously Honourable Ms Alexandra Downer, travelling incognito.

I emerged from hiding yesterday to publish my article and batten down the hatches for a dark age of leftist backslapping.

The Transformation of Alexander Downer is now complete. The Former Foreign Minister who would be woman is now all woman, disguised from the dark hordes who would feed him/her to the lions. Alexandra, as she is now called, dropped me off at Rose Bay wharf just a few hours ago.
“I must go now, Miranda, my most loyal friend. BFFs forever, okay, sweetie?” Alexandra said, biting her lip sympathetically as the tears welled in my eyes.
“I am lost without your moral compass”, I replied forlornly, “Let’s meet for coffee, okay?”
“Okay.”
Then she was gone.

All has been lost.

Eggplant and tofu smoothies are now the boisson du jour of the ruling chardonnay-sipping chattering classes. How they chatter and giggle and chatter some more! They sneer at me in the street. It is a good thing I am now wearing my biohazard suit everywhere I go. Those evil stares are almost certainly filled with AIDS. Their queefing, vegetarian bottoms are purveyors of hepatitis-ridden farts. I have seen it: one of them cropdusted Tony Abbott and his skin turned yellow almost immediately.

The Great Rudd from the Sky reigns supreme over the barren terrain. I hear he has ditched his clever little business suit and adopted Kim Jong Il pyjamas couture. According to an underground source, he sacrificed 437 goats to celebrate his victory, bleeding their guts out all over the War Memorial. I also have it on good authority that he has taken to eating babies on a weekly basis. Look what you’ve done, Middle Australia. You thought you were so clever. You bit the glorious hand of the Glorious John Winston Howard, the man who has fed you for so long, and then proceeded to devour him whole. Like snakes! Snakes!
You are all venomous, treasonous, left-leaning snakes!

Toodles!
xx Miranda

Gyah! What manner of foul Beast is this?

I stand on the brink of a great morass. Everywhere it is dark. The black sky, illuminated every now and then by the lightning, is teeming with scores of flying communists and vegan fairies, howling triumphant cries of victory. A radio is blasting leftist anthems and exciting the mob. Yet there is no radio. The radio never existed. But it has always been there, happily playing its leftist folksongs of dread. It is a postmodern radio. Quelle horreure!

Yet another of the Fellowship of the Completely and Utterly Correct has fallen into the yawning blackness below. It is Piers Akerman. He was pushed, shoved, and hounded to his doom by a large, hairy homosexual student riding a bicycle. I close my eyes. This cannot be happening. This is not what the prophecy predicted.

A gothic vegan incorrectanista with purple eye-makeup steps out of the menacing crowd, iPhone in hand. “Hah!” he shrieks, text messaging as he advances, “at last you’ll have your comeuppance, Miranda Devine”. He knows not what he is doing. I defeated that blithering buffoon John Thorpe and the AHA! I am a crusader of the people! How dare this raving, emotional, Bolshevik banshee taunt me! I bite my lip and say nothing. He will die soon, when I make my return.

I look to the Great Eye of John Winston Howard. It does not know where to look. It is trying to work out whether to trim its eyebrows or lock someone up. There are no boats. The refugees have safely landed ashore and have joined the leftist hordes in their advance. There is nobody to throw overboard. The streets are filled with Germaine Greers and Danielle Ecuyers, clad in fishnets and lapdancing the Ordinary Middle Australians who can’t work out whether this is just a film shoot for a particularly quirky Dancing With The Stars spinoff. I call for them to rally behind me but they can’t hear me. My voice is lost amidst the storm and the cries of the banana-bending vegetarians, and besides, there is an excellent night of television on.

The great Tower of Interest Rates is rising steadily and shadowing the land. The immigrants on my roof have mutineed and have torn out my rhododendrons. My sunbed lies smashed on the road below. Those blasted possums have grown teeth and are feasting on the bloodied remains of Gerard Henderson, who at this very moment is still crapping on about something glorious. Nobody is listening to him either, but then again, nobody ever did.

The White Wizard, Tony “Saruman” Abbott has fled. Or maybe they just threw him into the pit to shut him up.

A deathly squeal peels from the skies above my glorious and brave body. I look up. The Great Rudd is upon us, flanked by the Witch Gillard. He peers at me with his piggy little eyes. He speaks Mandarin, but inexplicably, I can understand him.

“I am Great Rudd from the Sky, and you are finished, Miranda Devine!”
“¿Que?” I reply defiantly.
Great Rudd from the Sky does not like this. Not one bit. His piggy eyes flash red behind his glasses. “I ask myself this question: why don’t you just give up?” The Great Rudd from the Sky is looking at me quizzically. The moronic chattering classes of leftist intellectuals echo him: “Yeah Miranda, give up. You’re an irrelevant old bag. Great Rudd will come from the Sky, take away everything, and make everybody feel high”.
“Silence!” Great Rudd booms, “I ask myself this question: am I as radical as you Arts Students? The answer is no. I also ask myself this question: do I want to be as middle of the road as possible so that I can just win this fucking election? The answer is yes.”

This shuts up the vegans good and proper. I might get to like this guy after all.

I want to tell the Great Rudd from the Sky why I will never give up. I want to tell him that all Glorious Middle Australians have the right to pursue what is best for them. That there will always be oil, and that the polar bears and cuscusses can go ram it where the sun wouldn’t even take a shit. That there is no way that I can be incorrect.

Then the communist mob begins to panic. It scatters, murmuring something about needing a cucumber smoothie. Great Rudd from the Sky looks confused. In the distance I can hear the sound of a Hummer roaring towards me. It tears through the crowd, laying waste to the hapless lefties in its path. There are guts on the bullbar. It is a glorious sight. A door opens, and a voice lisps from the vast space within.

“Get in”.

I get in. The interior is dark. As we race away from the scene, I catch a glimpse of some fishnet stockings. A familiar face leans over.
“I knew I could count on you, Miranda. You are in the circle of trust.”
“But Mr Downer, why are you dressed as a woman?”
“I am in disguise. They are after me too. Besides, I had plenty of outfits lying around. I knew they’d come in handy one day. Anyway, you know about my tendenc-…”
“I know, Alex. Your secret is safe with me”.

We must survive this horror for two more sleeps. Will we return to this cursed land triumphant?

Toodles!
xx Miranda

Middle Australia has had enough of the left.

I ask you, Middle Australia: what do the following people have in common?

• Danielle Ecuyer
• Monica Attard
• Julia Gillard
• Germaine Greer
• Paris Hilton

Don’t think too hard about it now. The answer shall be made clear to you.

Syphillis!

How dare these cheap harlots of the left dare to question the importance of my fact-finding mission to the Middle East. How dare they question the eleven year reign of the benevolent John Winston Howard. How dare they ride around in all of the available taxis, flashing their rash-ridden privates to all and sundry!

But, Middle Australia, it is not the vicious attacks on my character that concerns me. I, Miranda Esmerelda Agapanthus Gloriosa Diamond Devine, am above their criticism. I rise above it like the image of Mother Theresa, and defecate on these insignificant little worms from on high. I shit, as it were, in their shoes.

No my dear readers, it is the little people for whom I am once again spurred into action. Rudely I awaken from my wonderful dreams (involving Daniel Craig, a family size tub of yoghurt and a rubber-coated 6 D-Cell Maglite) and hear the call of the downtrodden. Those poor, defenceless voices of the silent majority are once again being trampled by the louche left, smothered in soya and battered by barley, beans and brown rice.

The vegan left are slowly and efficiently oppressing Middle Austrlia, led by that communist cyclist Carl Scully, whose flag is flown by the bitter bitches who mourn the decline of their beloved leader and economic extirpator Paul Keating at the 1996 election. For eleven long years these denizens of depravity have attacked the very fabric of Middle Australian society, and like Abigail Williams have been ousting their enemies with wild, baseless accusations.

Caroline Overington, two-time Walkely award winner and author of Kickback, the story of the AWB scandal, dared to make an innocent joke regarding an old lover’s tiff. The louche left immediately cast her to the wolves, claiming interference with the political process, despite the presence of the “cyber wink” which made clear that this was a short, jocular conversation.

Meanwhile Danielle Ecuyer, with all the grace and sophistication of an elderly dachshund in heat, has been stirring up the media by making formal complaints to the AEC. It amazes me that she has the time or ability to even write a letter of complaint, as the rest of her campaign has been spent tarting her “credentials” in a manner more suited to the front cover of Penthouse.

Phooey to you, Danielle. After the election, you will be back to selling your body on Bayswater Road, and I will continue to be the voice of the silent majority. Yet again, the good guys win, common sense prevails, and the reds are locked back under the bed.

Toodles!

xx Miranda