Its 12.38 and I only woke up 38 minutes ago. That’s superbly awesome. Yes, I could have just said ‘I woke up at midday’ but you’ll be thanking me for forcing you to keep you on your toes with simple maths when your brain doesn’t deteriorate. If your brain still does deteriorate then you can’t blame me. I would firmly point the finger at Big Brother and drinks that are the colour of radiation. Anyway, yeah I slept till midday, I’m like a teenager again! Woo! Take that the best part of the day! I don’t care how good you are, I’ve bypassed you ‘cos I don’t care! Yeah! Then I realise that I hope this is the only aspect of teenager life I have to go through again otherwise the acne, inability to speak to girls and generally being a twat will all make life hard. Especially as Layla will find living with me more difficult than usual if I just stumble over words when trying to talk to her and get all awkward. So hopefully its just the sleeping in. And as much as I’ve enjoyed it, I hope it doesn’t happen again as I’m now racked with guilt for having slept when I could have got up and done stuff. Its highly debatable what stuff I would have done, and its highly likely that the stuff would mostly have included drinking tea, sitting on the sofa and contemplating what other stuff I should probably be doing and feeling guilty about not doing it but at least I would have been doing all of that earlier.
I didn’t make it home until very late last night to be fair. Saying that I didn’t actually make anything. Someone else made my home many years ago, I just happen to live it and returned to the pre-made home at about 3am. The gig in Tenbury Wells was much fun like last month, with the added bonus of a sign in our toilet dressing room letting us know that it was the ‘worst dressing room in the UK but they are waiting for their lottery grant’. I hope that when the lottery grant arrives they just put a padded seat on the loo and some nice soap by the sinks just to wind us up. And after dealing with all the loony but lovely Tenbury Wellians and eating all the chocolates from backstage (which yes, sounds dubious when you know backstage was a toilet) the journey home was another long one. During that long journey home, Tiffany managed to spill prawn juice all over herself and the back of the car, and many ‘how shellfish’ gags were made and bad car fish smells were smelt. Today I have already spent a few mins emptying everything from my now crustacean ponging bag and need to work out how to make it not smell. According to the little label I can’t put it in the washing machine or in fact do anything to it. All the little pictures have a cross through them which either means I’m not allowed to do that or they are all X-Men mutant abilities and if I do decided to iron it lasers and metal claws will shoot out and people will die. I hope for the latter.
I don’t understand why everything isn’t machine washable nowadays. They must understand that if an item requires hand washing or some sort of delicate dry cleaning care that I either will never wash it, hoping the dirt just evaporates, or I will stick in the washing machine and hope for the best. ‘Oh but you’ll damage it’ or ‘god you stink’, either of those responses is not my fault. Make your stuff better clothing/bag/shoe/table/sat nav companies and let me stick it all in the washing machine or the blame shall continue to happen. Oh dear, I’ve just spilt some tea on the laptop. I reckon I’ll try it on a 30 degrees. Should be fine.
