Really. Nothing has happened. I am still returning home after work to squeeze out a shit book from my empty brain, utterly destroying my sex life in the process. Granted, I didn't have one to start off with, but I'm barely socialising with anyone now.
I am still cycling to work, which is having an unusual effect. In the old days, my metabolism would kick in and I'd lose weight. Now I'm losing nothing and I'm finding myself turning into a tank instead. My frame is still huge, my girth (sadly not of the penile variety), has got larger. I'm getting muscular, but it's just making me look like a club bouncer who's lost his bomber jacket.
So that's nice.
I am being self-destructive too. Not only am I chainsmoking for Britain, but at the weekend, I wrote precisely zero words. this was despite having two full days of potential writing time that I wasted in front of the computer looking at well-faked poltergeist hauntings (after, that is, I'd watched Poltergeist for no reason). I ate crap. I played Spider Solitaire. I went to bed. Then I returned from a day's work last night and wrote til 2am.
And that's all I have to offer. Sorry.
But in lighter news, my mate Phil has proposed to his missus, which also means my seventh wedding in ten months. Regrettably, I won't be there as they've opted for a day in September when I'll be in Eastern Europe trying to have sex. Perhaps that was the point.
Oh, and tomorrow, I'm off to Sweden for my fifth wedding. To say I'm looking forward to it would be an understatement. I've always wanted to go to Scandinavia, it will be full of blondes (allegedly), and I'll have a hotel bedroom all to myself.
The chances of me having sex have increased massively. However, so has my waistline, as I still can't fit into my One Beige Suit™ when I tried it on yesterday.
I may take condoms with me as an ironic gesture. It can't hurt. They'll be out of date in a week anyway.