Okay, I'll wake up at this hour, it's fine. Except I am tangled in the duvet cover.
When I moved my bed the cover tore, the tear has got big and I'm caught up in it. I must go to Habitat later to inspect their range of duvet covers.
I feel like I've been picked up and thrown against a brick wall.
These black straps are not mine but they are to blame. They belong to Chris and they're called wraps.
They are treacherous because they help you lift heavy weights, ones you wouldn't usually be able to lift.
We're somewhere in St James Park because this is where the London Marathon ends. Sally and I agree that there is more talent amongst the non-runners than there is with the athletes.
I have to apologise at this point for my lack of photographic evidence to support our claim but it's difficult to take pictures without a camera.
Well that's a lie. There's a camera on the iPhone. Herewith the evidence...
Bla bla, runners, marathon, well done, get a medal, feel good, walk around in silver tin foil, running shorts are so unflattering. I leave.
Habitat expect me to give them £75 and in return they will allow me to take a new duvet cover out of their shop! I decline this formalised robbery and leave the store.
Sainsbury's do duvet covers for £10. Can you imagine the static created by a ten pounder? A night of tossing off and turning and you'd generate enough electricity to power a small village in the Cotswolds.
And let's be honest - we all know that nylon sheets are rubbish because they offer absolutely no traction.
The sun is beginning to set, it's the start of a gorgeous evening in the Londons and everyone wants to be out in their garden reading the paper and sipping Pimms.
Perhaps they may fire up the barbeque and settle in with friends for one last hoorah before the glorious weekend ends.
Yep, I'm off to the cinema.
In The Loop is funny and with a large number of obscene insults. I enjoyed it.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I can't abide this any fucking longer.
When Macs work they are great. When they don't they are fucking useless piles of fucking shit.
With a PC, when it fucks up you can open the bonnet and see what the fuck is wrong and try to fix it.
With a Mac all you get are fucking generic fucking messages like "Safari cannot connect to the internet" and nowhere will it give you any indication as to what is wrong.
It just sits there. Like the useless pile of fucking steaming shit that it is.
And what's with all the fucking dim Mac names for everthing?
Instead of Wifi it's AirPort. AirPort is connected to the router but for some reason Safari (geddit - going onto the internets is like going on Safari - oh will someone please fucking slap me) anyway Safari won't connect to the net.
So I have had to copy the all of this text from one Mac onto a PC (my housemate's) and it's working fine and I can connect to the internet perfectly.
Over on the other side of the table that dim fucking MacBook sits spewing out some holier-than-thou crap that a whole load of hairy men lounging on beanbags in California made up.
"Would you like to check the network diagnostics?"
"No, I don't want to check some fucking random shit that I can't fix, I just want the goddam thing to connect to the fucking internet."
I think that's why they make Mac shit so fucking expensive. Not because it's any better but simply because it makes you think twice before picking the fucking thing up and hurling it across the fucking living room.
You stupid MacBook pile of fucking crap.
I'm going to bed. Fuck.