I had a bloody load of night time mares last night. One featured an enormous house that I couldn’t escape from, a la The Prisoner, with a fucking Tiger in it who was still a bit peckish following the savage slaughter of Gok Wan and the other had Frank on the top of a 16-story-high ladder trying to get a tube of toothpaste out of a vice mounted on a wobbly shelf that I was also sat on. Where on earth these wee-hour horrors had come from I’ve no idea but I was awoken in a bloody fit. Admittedly I had watched From Hell that evening but as neither Tigers, wobbly shelves or toothpaste feature I doubt that was the source of my fears.
I can only put it down to concerns over my ex-flat that feature all of the above ingredients save the tiger and the oversized ladder. It’s back on the market again as my second buyer, the smelly bitch, has disappeared. Depressingly I received a text from my agent early evening yesterday informing me that he’d ‘a couple of viewings’ lined up this week. So, after a year of having the place on the market, I’m quite literally back to square one. Great stuff, bloody great lovely fucking shitting stuff.
The temperature has returned to 1. My newish gloves seem to have lost their urge (as they wear the vital materials compress and they allow heat to escape) so by the time I was 30 minutes into my journey after work (which I left a little early because snow was happening) I was practically screaming in agony from the horrific pain emanating from my fingertops. I had visions of their being blackened with frostbite and remaining stuck in the end of my gloves when I took them off. I pulled over by The Salvation Army offices at Elephant and Castle to check. The very act of taking my gloves off had the strange effect of bringing them back to some sort of life; this sudden infusion of blood was almost as dreadful as their state of frozen fish fingerdom. Something needed to be done, and fast. I needed inner-gloves to support the outer pair, but I’d already passed Metropolis at Vauxhall so was forced into the humourless dealer in Shoreditch.
They’re miserable bunch of cunts in there. Nine times out of ten motorbike dealers are a cheery bunch with the necessary ‘all stand together, us against them’ sort of thing going down. Not in this place. The staff look at you as if they want to smash your face in, so I made my own way round the store under the steely gaze of some bellend until I’d located a pair of winter inners. They were purchased virtually wordlessly and I left feeling like I’d just contracted a hit on a schoolgirl. Outside another staff member was changing a bulb on a customers Honda Scooter (these sorts of machines and ‘riders’ shouldn’t be permitted to mix with the likes of REAL bikers and bikes, I mean who goes to a fucking mechanic to get a bulb changed?) They were no more that two feet away from Brutta. Both the ‘rider’ and, I presume ‘mechanic,’ watched me with contemptuous gaze as I mounted my steed. I waited until they’d gone back to their business and hit the starter. Brutta erupted with such a sudden roar the rider cleared the pavement and the ‘mechanic,’ who’d been squatting behind the scooter, leapt to his feet as if bolted with a cattle prod. Pricks!
Oh, the new inner gloves work a treat, and they were under £15.
I had a nice evening with IC, she came down to the Twatcave for a spot of Fisherman’s Pie and we split a bottle of wine in front of the aforementioned film, which is touch and go if I’m honest but ultimately worth it. I guess.
Is it still morning?
