I seem to be getting later and later in my writing of these.
It is currently Tuesday morning, way too early for inspiration to fly. Hopefully I'll be able to grind something out before the train reaches work. Now the most annoying thing about the lateness of me writing this is that I actually had a three-day weekend.
Day One was a bit of a washout though. I had nipped out to the pub on Friday night and over sampled a touch. What I really want to know is where it went wrong. One moment I am having a few sociable ales and feeling 'lubricated'. The next thing I am aware of I am at home, prattling about politics and quite clearly drunk in a way that can only be achieved by pumping alcohol into your bloodstream with a garden hose. Where did the bit in the middle go? Surely at some point I must have been quite clearly bladdered and yet still drinking? But I have no recall of any pint that was not reverently supped. How odd. And how I wish someone had stopped me.
On a monumental constructions scale my hangover the next day was up there with the Aswan Dam. I could barely move before Midday and the sore head finally left with consciousness that night. Still, I did manage to read the final issue of League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen so the day was not a total loss. And I did still have two whole days to get stuff done.
But Day Two was a Sunday, much to my surprise. It is a scientifically provable fact that no useful work can be done on a Sunday. One may think one is being useful by buying a new power drill in B and Q but really Sundays are all about prevarication. The dog is taken for an extra long walk. An extra large newspaper is bought and then listlessly flicked through. A large roast is served at precisely the best time to prevent anything else being done with the afternoon. And foreign films are watched at the local arthouse/googlplex cinema.
I went to see Belleview Rendez Vous which is a brilliant must for all lovers of any of the following - Jacque Tati, Animation, Fat Dogs or Thirties cartoons. I shall say no more so as not to step on anyone's film reviewing toes.
And so to Monday. Two days down, nothing useful done but a day with no distractions. The major factor of the day was to conquer my intense fear of talking to strangers on the telephone and phone a plumber. So naturally I started by filling the washing machine, hoovering the house, emptying every litter bin, washing the dishes and mucking about with the central heating. Eventually I ran out of other things to do, having even done a second load of washing, and made the phone call. Which was as scary as Rupert The Bear. Still won't make it any easier next time. Unfortunately the release of tension at this point caused me to lose all memory of what I was supposed to do such that five o'clock found me staring confusedly at a lemon with no idea what I was going to have for dinner.
Now then. What was I trying to say? Something about domestic bliss? Or lemons? Just a mo' I'll pop back to the start and have a look.
Oh yes, having no time to write this. I'm not totally convinced Shazz will accept this in lieu of an apology for once again handing in late but it has to be worth a shot1.
Next time - (if I can write it punctually) - Humpty Dumpty and his fear of the Eton wall game.