You meet some friends in a lovely bar and your mate who’s the manager and not actually working gets behind the bar and makes you taste some more expensive and sophisticated wines which you don’t like and say so, then he buys you the standard SSB you’ve been drinking and at that precise moment your friends decide to leave and he says he has to go and then you have to down your drink Like an Alco after he’s scooted out the door so you don’t seem like a massive loser.
Then you walk home and one of your besties texts you to say “I just saw you walk past the restaurant” and you walk back and hold up against the window the “I love Cats. I just hate people” fridge magnet just given to you by your friend who knows you too well and people sitting near the window smirk. Then you cross the road and raid the lovely green lawn of the funeral parlour next to your house for grass for the bitch cat whom you love but no one else does, who was whingeing earlier at the pot that used to contain cat grass and feed her bloody grass by hand so she can vomit on your shoes later (has not happened yet, I merely expect it to).
You discover a half bottle of Two Churches shiraz and do a small dance then fire up the computer and instead of writing your stupid godamn stupid novel you write your blog instead. Then go outside for a cigarette and see creepy bathroom man looking down into your courtyard and decide you must DEFINITELY get some kind of shade cloth because he’s clearly a pervert, even though you clearly can’t afford it. And of next week, when the new mortgage kicks in, you probably can’t even afford to feed yourself.
Apart from that and almost ripping my head off trying to get a week-long project bloody finished by Sunday (is everyone on holiday? WHY won’t you RETURN my Calls???) everything is mostly cool. I’m going to drink Shiraz and read Kathleen E Woodiwiss’s novel (mother of rom hist nov) and maybe slip into some Once Upon a Time on the ole media player I’ve downloaded. WHat’s that you say? That I’m a massive escapist? Ask my mother. She’ll say YES. Ever since I used to dress up like a princess and walk around the garden talking to flowers and making up stories. Sometimes I still do. Not the dresses but I talk to myself in the car and tell myself stories and I pretend I’m being responsible and I’ve got a car handset (which I don’t). ONe day the cops are going to get me and that will be the totall opposite of awesome.