You'd swear I'd been busy. I haven't been blogging much, or doing much of anything, over the last while. Even my last, lazy, vituperative little missive was posted in place of something much more literary but a lot more private. I'm glad I never sent it internetwards.
A drinkless weekend where I got acquainted with the white leather as never before. The couch, you miscreants.
A drinkless weekend where I swore blind I'd go out and see the world but only after the next cup of tea, the next mug of coffee, the next episode of Peep Show. The next, the next, the next to the point of midnight and not a child in the house drunk.
I did work, I suppose there was that. Golf leaderboards and football score updates. Stuff of my childhood dreams. The stuff of my childhood dreams punctured by a disgusting pastrami melt from the Pig and Heifer and yet more tea and biscuits and banter.
Back home. Friendless for the duration, girlfriendless for the duration, just countless episodes of the bespoke Channel 4 classic and the voices of Mitchell and Webb in my head as I dozed off to sleep in fresh sheets.
I've begun narrating my own life and making great drama for myself out of the washing up, the morning ablutions, the people walking up and down outside my balcony.
I gave myself the willies by watching 'Catfish' on DVD too, creepier than any horror film, and spent too many minutes pondering a Chinese takeaway without ever seeing it through. It would have been a Kung Po, but I always say that, so it would really have just been a chicken curry and boiled rice.
That all turned into two toasted pitta pockets with cheese and sectioned pickle, and the sight of Cowen fiddling while everything burned around him.