olives: don't be deceived

Firstly. Here I am. I'm back on. Although I think I may have sweated a lot of my mojo out whilst I was ill for I am suffering a way-big lack of writing enthusiasm.
Secondly. So I apologise if my work is dull.
Thirdly. Husband returned from his 9 day trip to Sardinia in his 4* hotel with no present for me and an American-sized-jumbo-pack of Kinder-chocolate, which I believe isn't Italian, even, for the girls. Humour fast dissolved. Not that a happy relationship should be based on presents. But giving is meant to give joy to the giver in an altruistic and halo-shining fashion. Husbands halo was fast knocked off its already rocky perch when I realised (as I put on the third load of dirty been-abroad-cloths-wash) he really wasn't joking about the lack of gift. My gifts to him were therefore retracted and my extra complicated and unfriendly pyjamas have been worn on a nightly basis since.
Fourthly. Do not be deceived by olives on an olive tree. Do not think to yourself, oh, this reminds me of my trip to Greece, or that time in the South of France when... or, remember when we were in Spain in that olive grove with all the lizards; popping them into your mouth like a minstrel... In England, if you see an olive tree with plump black shiny olives glinting at you - run a mile. Put you hands in your pockets and turn-heel. Do not listen to your practical-joker-work colleague and believe him when he says, oh, yes, I had one earlier, simply scrumptious. Go on, try! For you will be left feeling like I do, 9hours later: ill sick disgusted at my own idiocy.
How could I have ever thought that an olive on a young English Olive tree in the middle of a Hackney Garden Centre could be anything other than utterly repulsive?
I gagged in the same way I heard poor Mol gagging down the loo 3 weeks ago. But I wasn't in the privacy of my home, I was in front of my work "mate" on a street in the middle of N-bloody-1. Fucker! I vow to get him back. I VOW...
Although, my tale of near-vomiting is not nearly so tragic as that of a chum who was out at the gig of some sadly relaunched pop-legend (he was in a Boy Band of the 90's)... who got so over-excited by all the celeb-spotting that she drank her weight in Pina-Collada's at the gig, and then projectiled on the street outside the show. And she's a mother. I won't mention names and I won't tell your daughters about it at their 16/18/21st birthdays either.
Olive anyone?
(oh, so who is watching X-factor and Strictly? God, I LOVE Virgin right now - replay just rocks the house for being able to accommodate both...) (but, SHIT - who saw Whitney's dress pop? and who saw Robbies eyes spin? Freak-oh-rama.)