I am doing some holiday this week. I've not really taken any time off since I started my new job way back in June, so there were a few days to take. I have a stack of books, a pile of DVDs and plenty of time in which to sit in my pyjamas and ram them down my throat like so much Ben and Jerry's cookie dough ice cream.
I'm house-sitting you see. Sister-sitting too, whilst my parents swan off to Egypt for a week and do scuba-diving and shit. I hope they get sunburnt personally, it's not right for them to be having fun at their age. Life is supposed to be a grind, a slog, a mill. There's no room for frivolity, japes and excitement.
It's weird how you have to do those things in threes, right? I've tried it other ways round, but three is the magic number. It just fits, goes, works. See what I mean? It just wouldn't be right if it were two, a couple. It's like ending a sentence halfway.
The main problem with being in this house and not at work is that I have nothing to think about, and my head is full of the cuckoo clock. It ticks apocalyptically loud, and the cuckoo is like Sir Tom Jones bellowing through a bullhorn with gusto having taken a couple of deep breaths of helium.
It's a delightful thing, this cuckoo clock - a truly premium piece of Black Forest craftsmanship. I even took a picture of it once. But as with so many things, it's much easier to appreciate from a great distance. For one thing it distracts from the books and DVDs.
14 minutes ago