A big fucking blancmange. That is today.
(And whenever I hear that word I can't help myself... "And I'm so small and I'm so small - wrap me round your finger, see me fall, here we go...!")
At some point I'm on the Central Line.
I am getting off for work, not getting off to do the walk of shame.
I would far rather be doing the walk of shame.
For breakfast I eat shit. Who cares. It's a fucking day off from gym. When I woke up I closed my eyes and uttered the words "Thank God It's Friday." It's been a long time since I meant it so much.
If you're Jewish please look away now...)
Bacon, pork sausages, tomato sauce and a roll. Tomorrow I'll deal with the consequences.
Eating bacon, sausage and tomato sauce rolls reminds me of when my dad and I used to go to the car racing.
You probably have better things to do than read this crap but I'm going to drone on about it anyway...
It would always be a hot summer's day and we'd always sit on the same stand, the one just after the Porsche Owners' Club of South Africa.
It was dusty and hot and the sound of the cars whizzing past, I can feel the grit in my teeth and sunburn on my arms even now.
My dad was a workaholic so going to the races was one of the rare occasions that we would do something together.
That Philip Larkin poem rings so true because not only did my parents fuck me up but they also filled me with some faults of their own.
Memories of the races is one of those few times when I was a son and my father was a dad. I mean, it wasn't a time when my father was topping me up with his own faults.
The day today collapsed like a souffle in the cupboard.
Until now, where I am sitting on the bed typing this in my underwear.
I have nothing else to say.
Sometimes you open the newspaper and page all the way through to the end and you think to youself, "there's absolutely nothing in there that grabs my interest."
Such is how I am feeling right now.