An indoor day, sporadically watching the snooker and dipping into my book about a shit-infested Balinese prison. A tremendous read entirely, 'Hotel K,' and it's distracting me from a minor bout of throat-ouch and, most importantly of all, myself.
I had a thought about the queen's* visit to Ireland. They're down to visit Croke Park and the Garden of Remembrance and Coolmore Stud and the Guinness Storehouse and Trinity College and fuck knows where else on their three-day jaunt.
You'd be knackered after all that. I'm tired even thinking about it, and I have no involvement whatsoever.
"Fuck this, Philip, look at this itinerary."
"What is it NOW, dear?"
"Look what they're having us do, where they're making us go. Here there and fucking everywhere, Philip."
"Language, Liz, language."
"I'm riled up Philip. I'm 85 tomorrow and they're having me stand around in horse muck and shaking the hands of a bunch of West Brit haircuts."
"Well what do you suppose we should do about it, dear?"
"I believe we should go, as intended, and just sit in our hotel rooms and order one of those frightfully good pay-per-view channels."
"Oh they ARE frightfully good. Yes, I like them."
"Or, Philip, you could see to it that someone ships over the DVD player from the entertaining den. We could finally get into that 'House' box-set that Camilla gave us. That Hugh Laurie is frightfully good."
"And a frightfully nice chap too."
"Oh Philip, let's. Let's jettison all that State visit shit and stay indoors. They have those Domino's pizza pies in Dublin too according to the computer box."
"Have it your way, dear."
"...oh? What's this? Philip. PHILIP! Wake up! They're trying to get us to pay our own way! What a fucking dis..."
"LANGUAGE, dear! Look up Trip Advisor and be done with it."
"Very well, Philip. Very well."
*I capitalise for no monarch.