I have but 4,000 words until I complete my NaNoWriMo. It is a painful, self-induced crawl to the end. What started off as a thrilling race in September careening through the month trying to complete a 50,000 word novel has now become a thoroughly arduous slog to the finishing line when my computer exploded and I went on to lose my creative endeavour mojo.
But by Saturday, I am hoping the hell will all be over, and available in all good bookshops soon.
Last week was Chopper's wedding. In my ignorance, it didn't dawn on me that he was actually married to the abundantly lovely Clare (I understand that she too reads this blog) until he spoke to the assembled throng in a parting speech. Possibly because Chopper hates speaking in public, and possibly because my speech was finally out of the way, I was able to fully appreciate their union when he made his heartfelt statement that he was the 'luckiest man in the world'.
And I was suddenly gobsmacked and overjoyed for them both in their Adultness.
The Best Man speech went well, shared as it was between myself and the other Best Men, Jimmy and Phil. My original speech was discarded after it became apparent that I would have offended everyone including the barstaff, so we all gleaned what generic lines we could off the Internet to read in sections instead.
Guess who got the crap gags?
And guess who has discovered a rather unpleasant dislike for speaking in public. So there goes my semi-dream of being a stand-up comedian.
When another mate gets married next year, an event where I am the sole Best Man, I fully expect to publicly shit myself and end up on You've Been Framed.
I did have the briefest of romantic dalliances with one of the wedding guests though, which was gratifying. Except she was really smashed, which wasn't.
Although I was pretty drunk myself, which was excusable.
Although not as drunk as her, so it wasn't.
Sadly, we had snogged via the medium of her taking a picture of us with her outstretched arm. This meant that when she woke up the following day with a pounding headache and no memory, she'd be able to scan through her pictures of the wedding to find one of her getting off with the Elephant Man.
I really wouldn't want to be a fly on the wall when she found that photo and decided to renounce alcohol forever.
And then, this morning, I looked at a penis.
I couldn't help it. It was in front of me.
I was in the gym showers, having had my pre-work swim, quickly soaping myself as I resolutely faced the wall in the traditional English manner. As I walked self-consciously off to the locker room, an old chap who swims there every morning bade me a cheery farewell.
'Whassat?' I replied.
He turned to face me and repeated himself.
As he did so, I inadvertently looked down at his aged wang. After all, the damn thing suddenly appeared from nowhere. I didn't mean to specifically and openly look at his todger - I didn't even mean to look at it surreptitiously - but look, I did.
And he saw me look.
And I saw him see me look.
So he frowned while I grimaced and ran off.
Men don't look at other men's penises. It tends to make for awkward social moments.
I fucking hate public showers.