I'm going to fail blog writing 101 if I sit at this laptop a minute longer, typing nothing.
In the middle of a busy working day yesterday I received a call from a solicitor - I think he said his name was Brendan Scott - telling me that he represented the singer Enya and that she was initiating legal proceedings as a result of my recent blog.
With goals flying in over in England and not a minute to think, I just told him to do one, that I was busy. I was momentarily thrown as I didn't recognise his voice.
The confusion brought on by a busy period in work, allied with the previous night's leftovers, caused a momentary breakdown on my part. I forgot where I was. I couldn't figure out why I was staring at an untyped goal alert. "Could she really have....? No, there's no way, is there....? Jesus. Maybe I'll delete it... What the fuck? What the fuck? Oh wait. Greaney."
He's pulled this kind of stunt before, though I still don't know how he disguised his voice so well. A part of me was disappointed that I wasn't to appear before the courts and plead comedy. That would have been fun, if a little financially crippling in my stupid little world. As things stand, I'll have to get the fucker back.