It's all about me. Me me me.
I'm trying to wind down from work, given the fact that I walked out of Setanta Towers roughly 46 minutes ago. It's 00:18 now and I'm back in there at ten in the morning.
I don't understand how I need to wind down, though. My last hour in there was spent picking my nose, bouncing the little spongy basketball off the window, and writing a snooker report. Five very sensible paragraphs on John Higgins beating Ryan Day in the London Something Watches Glasgow Grand Prix Final Rematch The Third Yarrump.
"The trick is in convincing the reader you have slightest fucking clue who Ryan Day is."
Anyway, it's not like I'm overloaded on adrenalin having played to 535 million people at Knobworth (sic). I'm just restless and interesting, trying to figure out what that weird moment was earlier on. A strange feeling came over me as I walked up Hawkins Street and saw the rain sheeting down on the Screen cinema, with the sun as background.
A thought came to me then, a moment of literary largesse, and I can't get it back.
But it soon come.