I’ve nowt much on tonight. Hallebloodylujah. I’ve nowt much on engagement-wise I mean; I’m not partially clad. (Although I do tend to remove tights and pants in a oner and throw them across the bedroom with gay abandon as soon as I cross the threshold of the house ( in the way, not out the way – I’m many things but I’m not an exhibitionist, damn you. Don’t visualise any of this, it’ll just put you off your mince and tatties) CLOSE MULTIPLE BRACKETS ))).
I loathe and detest having stuff on on school nights. I always regret planning social activities and will do my utmost to get out of a thing as the agreed hour approacheth. I live in hope that the other person texts me first with a pathetic excuse so I can feign disappointment, but that rarely happens. Bastards. Surely the world is full of people grudgingly schlepping their way to a social engagement (“oh come for tea next Monday! We’d LOVE to see you!”) wishing that the world would end or something equally dramatic that overrides all diaried appointments? Surely.
This must be linked to my procrastination gene. (I got all the shit genes passed down including my dad’s legs – it’s Cankle City Arizona here) I once hoped a person would die so I wouldn’t have to do a work thing for him I’d procrastinated over for a year and a half. I’m a horrible person. I just hoped he’d die without having left a record of our discussion and subsequent action points. I’d’ve punched the air in triumph if I’d had a phone call to say “Oh Lindsey I’ve some terrible news…C**** M***** died suddenly this morning. A very tragic accident involving his tie and the office shredder”. I never understood the brief anyway so when I eventually did the thing it was all wrong, but I moved on from it very rapidly, box duly ticked. I suspect he’s still alive just to spite me, simmering with lingering resentment about my inability to understand basic instruction and the length of time it took me to produce a frankly well below average piece of work. I still wake up with the fear occasionally about that, toes curling with embarrassment. (I woke up with the fear this morning about an embarrassing alcohol induced impromptu interpretive dance I did on Saturday night to the White Horses theme tune from the eponymous seventies badly dubbed TV prog, but that’s quite literally another story).
In other news Tucker had the run of the house today. I was leaving for work and the little shit ran under my bed before I could start the kettling process which involves luring him from room to room, shutting doors behind him until we reach the lockdown point (kitchen). I could not be arsed trying to get him from under the bed so just left him free range. When I opened the front door, yanking off pants and tights before the door shut behind me, he was there to greet me with my toothbrush in his mouth, which he’d obviously looted from the suitcase I’d abandoned at the front door last night after my weekend away. Ha! I did laugh!
In other other news there’s a rather exotic looking spider in my letterbox. May be somebody’s pet.