Because Talking to You is Marginally Better Than Talking to Myself


Thusfar I have literally ruined a muscle in my stomach I didn’t know I had until the evil Plates class, acquired an original 1950s fur coat belonging to my late great-aunt (origin of animal unknown) and seen one, yes one, semi-attractive looking man on the high street.

I have also chapterised (yes, that’s a word I made up. It sounds productive, doesn’t it) the goddamn novel, but without a constant stream of cigarettes and booze I’m finding the writing quite hard, nay impossible. Which is why I’m posting pictures of love-god Henry Cavill and watching Bargain Hunt on TV instead.

On the plus side I walked home from my failed attempt at yet another shiteful exercise class with no umbrella and fucking sleet driving into my face until my extremities went numb through the Islands. You can see a delightful picture below.

islands

 

Now I’m wondering if I’ve got enough time to raid the booze cabinet before mum gets back from Tesco. Oh wait. Escape to the Country Renovation Special Ops Bargain Hunter Airport Security in Essex is on. Hold fire.

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About ohhellwhatthehell

I like gin, mittens and otters, not necessarily in that order. Here's some stuff I felt like writing down when I'm not chained to a desk writing other things for a living. Please use caution when using this site; there may be sweary words, cute animals and general bullshit. Don't say I didn't fucking warn you.
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