Sunday

Why oh why oh why does it take her so long to write anything these days? Actually, I say 'these days' but what I mean is 'why does it STILL take her so long to write anything?' Surely she should be developing some sort of fluidity by now. She has spent all afternoon oscillating between her computer, the kitchen, her bed, the UFO, the loo, the kitchen, the loo again, and thus we have about 360/990 words of one thing and an unedited 350 of another. Le idiot supermassive.

She needs to do some squash, get out of here. It's snowing outside in dandruff waves, or perhaps it's rain now. I too am a lazy, festering victim of a Sunday and cannot be bothered to reach over and part the curtains. But anyway, she has just proposed to herself that maybe she won't bother with squash today, that maybe it won't matter, that getting out of her pyjamas (I know - feral isn't it) is too much of a hopeless act at 19:42. She would do it for the pub.

Soapbox yesterday was draining and brilliant. Brilliant in bits. Susie was brilliant, with the additional joy of a random blonde fawning at her feet, and Danny Whitehouse was brilliant, and Marcus Keeley was beyond brilliant. I'm not going to talk about the Open Mic before because they all did much better than I could ever do and I had no right to snort into my cider. The occasional snort. Not for Lucy, though; always a delight. But dear me, the culminative effect of the whole day was complete exhaustion. Sorry to Josh, it was my fault the idiot couldn't stay for longer than one orange liquor in Frank's. I was getting callouses on my ankles.

Right. Get up get up GET UP you fat beached whale and go and play squash.

She's going now, and I'm going to sit in here and warm my toes on the radiator.

Good night loves,

Consette x

P.S. Shit. Just realised I can't sit here and warm my toes by the radiator in her absence. I am imaginary.