I guess it's to be expected from a day that started sitting opposite tube
I've finally succumbed to this shit weather. It's bearable when one's mood is high, but when you feel as wretched as George Bush's smug head and you feel as if life is like an Iraqi's shoes, you want to lash out at the biting wind.
I spent the weekend near Ipswich. It was very pleasant but I shan't go into such life-affirming detail. Instead I'll relate the phonecall I took from my Mum on Sunday, as my mates' five-year-old son tried to climb up my shrivelled hungover brain.
'A woman tapped me on the shoulder,' she said, 'when I was in (insert name of shopping centre just north-west of London. In Watford. Called the Harlequin.)'
'She asked if I had a son called Fweng.'
'So I said I did, and she said she was Quentin's mother.'
'Quentin Eclampsia?' - A lad I was at primary school with.
'That's him. She asked me what you were up to, so I said you used to work at the BBC but got bored with it.'
Bless her cotton socks. In truth, my contract came to an end, and no amount of wrangling or all-out begging could convince anyone to extend it. She continued,
'And now he's an office manager selling plastic fucking bags to irritating bastards.'
'Oh lovely! Mrs Eclampsia had replied.
'And what does Quentin do?' my Mum asked.
'Oh, he's a doctor.'
That hasn't helped much. My jeans waistband is starting to nip at my stomach again, as my faith in crisps as a major food group takes hold. Work was more irritating than being chained up to David Cameron. And my novel (Ha!), my one chance to write myself out of my continual rut, is shit. It's torturous, it's lacking in something vital, it's a grammatical turd that won't get finished, let alone published.
A quick google search reveals that even my old childhood chum Dr Eclampsia has had a book published! Good for him!!!
Oh, and I think my friend, he of the single Polish lady acquaintance, hasn't replied to my text for a reason. He saw her a few days ago and said he'd put in a good word for me. Sadly, I have a vague feeling that he might read this blog, and may have taken umbrage at my conviction that I WAS DEFINITELY GOING TO SHAG HER.
But back in the real world, now crashing down to earth from my recent, inexplicable high (based on fuck-all), I'm reminded that my penis is best left in its jar, an ugly scientific curio.
On the plus side, I haven't got cancer. But I'm smoking enough to get it.
Humbug. Fucking life.