Oh, I don't think so sunshine

Very much enjoyed the overheard conversation this morning. I say overheard, but he was willingly sharing it.

Knowing London, it was probably improv theatre of some kind.

I especially liked how the posh Putney folk ran away up the platform in panic, but Ginger Beard and myself leaned in.

'I'm not spending a single second with that fucking evil bitch.'

'I will no longer dance to all of her tunes!'

'I can't go round there Mum; I'll kick the shit out of her family.'

Lovely man. And a real treat to get the impression that he is single. Unfortunately I did not have an opportune moment to request his number.

So unfair.

SLEEP OF THE WEEK!

Yet again, someone has fallen asleep around Nia Edwards. Nia - I can only assume that you use up all of your fascinating conversation on me.

This is Maurice. I've made him massive. He's probably also made himself massive.

A few things are going on here.

1) He's just been to an all you can eat buffet and consumed twice his weight in chicken wings. Throughout, he cleverly swiped the occasional chicken wing into his bag. He is now hugging his booty closely for numerous reasons:

A) Warmth

B) To keep the great memories of lunch close

C) To remind himself how great dinner will be.

2) The woman to his right is moment's away from fully kicking off that shoe, and seductively caressing his shin with her bare foot. She can smell the chicken, and she's hungry.

But look at him; Maurice ain't sharing that chicken with anyone.

Don't kiss me please

I'm writing a novel!

Okay, maybe not right this second.

And maybe I found it in a folder entitled '2009' and have spent the past few hours merely editing, but still.

I'm sure that at some point I'll actually write a new bit.

And I'm not remotely paralysed by the possibility that the best writing I'll ever produce was born in 2009, and will forever remain in 2009, not at all.

Why are you so judgey all of a sudden, huh?

ANYWAY

I've signed up for a one day writing retreat in November. The jist is that you get locked in a room for seven hours with no internet and lots of cake, and you have to hand over your mobile.

I'm pretty sure you can leave when you want, but I'm going to pretend it's like prison.

I'm optimistic that by forcing myself to face my biggest fear - the bright, white blank page (or worse - my own writing closely resembling a Dan Brown novel - eek) I will find out whether or not I really want to do this anymore.

Because maybe I want to be an accountant instead, or a retail assistant, or something equally interesting.

Hopefully not.

I don't know if any of you lot have a dream that you only ever talk about, and never actually work for, but it's really, really hard.

There's a chance that I'll head to the retreat, throw up and go home. Maybe I could write a story about it!

ALSO

I was recently in Berlin, and Ginger Beard got shitty with me, because I kissed him in the Holocaust Memorial.

Is that bad?

I'm not talking a frenchie.

I'm talking a peck.

Can you not peck when you're learning about genocide?

Is it possibly my mother's fault for not raising me properly?

It made me wonder about what other inappropriate things I've been doing, maybe things that no one has flagged.

Like, I've started yawning and putting an open fist over my mouth, instead of laying my hand flat. Do you see what I'm saying here? I'm basically creating a tunnel for people to see into my mouth.

I'm also the only person I know who was thrown out of The Brownies. Apparently it was for stealing. I didn't get a fair trial. I actually think it was a cheap plot by the other brownies, who were intimidated by what a great brownie I was.

THE POINT IS....

I used to think my manners were pretty top notch. But maybe I'm just a disrespectful thief?

It's not like I kissed him in Dubai.

If I'd kissed him in Dubai, he'd be naked in the shower block of an all male prison, with a group of stocky males asking if he wanted to be friends.


I'm pretty sure that was inappropriate. Sorry.

Sleep of the Week - Sophie

Light up fatty
Don't you worry
As I inhale
In breathless hurry
The plume of smoke
From your pink pout
Resist the urge
To put it out
On your face.





WOW. Is it me, or do I become a better poet everyday? It never once occurred to me, during my three year Creative Writing Degree, that poetry was my forte, but it's looking likely.

And not just any poetry - aggressive poetry. Poetry with punch. Did I just stumble upon the title of my first anthology? One thinks so!

When I finally snap and stab someone, my sobbing mother will offer up these darling poems to the police, crying, 'It's all there officer!'

I had the occasional cigarette growing up (this confession is why my Mum will be so happy to dob me in after the stabbing), but I've developed a real aversion to the selfish smoker, who suggests, nay insists that you share the experience with them.

WELL THANKS

Since the odds are stacked against me for dying of my own stupidity, clumsiness and alcoholism, I really don't need this on top.

Mum, it's okay, I'm joining in with Dry September, from today actually. I'm calling it Partially Dry September. Do you want to sponsor me?

Anyway, it's only bloody time for Sleep of the Week! Another blinder submitted by Nia Edwards. It could be assumed that people regularly fall into deep sleep in her company. But I don't think anyone would assume that. Not one person.

This is Sophie.

She is completely dedicated to her sleep.

She has nothing left to give to anyone.

If you held a puppy in front of her face, and a gun to the puppy's face and shouted 'Wake up or the puppy gets it!', the puppy would get shot, and it's likely, shot in the face.

It's also nice to see a girl spread her legs on the tube. Look, you know what I mean. Men typically spread their legs as wide as physically possible, close to pelvic dislocation (check out massive knee on her right). Actually, is that a giant? Is it?

Sophie is owning it.

Good for you Soph.

Animate this

Just eaten a Muller fruit corner with a fork - recommend.

The spoons are all reallllly far away, and it drastically increased how long it took me to eat it, generating the welcome illusion that it was massive.

ALSO

I am really sick

Okay, so not in a death bed way, not even really in a bed way, as I'm at work. But in the way you can be so, so, so sick, and yet still fully function.

We've all been there.

The real disadvantage of my illness, other than looking like a complete, snotty joke, is that the main casualty is my IQ. In that, I've become incredibly thick.

Either that, or the virus is acting like a kind of reducer, seeing me unable to keep up all the usual effort I go to, to appear remotely intelligent.

I spoke to someone this morning, and tried to convey this symbol <

Me: It's like, it's like an arrow pointing at something to the left.

Man: A less than symbol?

Me: Great, thanks for that.

Almost as fun as when this happened last week:

Man: I've sent you the password, it's 'password.'

Me: Yes I know. I've tried it and it doesn't work.

Man: Password. That's P-A-S-S-W-O-R-D

I'd of killed him, but I'm too professional.

Oooh, maybe I could just stab him, or render him unable to speak using a punch to the mouth. I'm not too professional for either of those things.

Okay, so maybe I'm thick and aggressive.

ALSO

Does anyone know someone who's an animator? I've decided that I'm ready to be a successful writer now. I think it's because I've managed to write two poems in a month. Anyway, and I have this animation that could do with the help of someone.....someone, talented.

At about 2am Sunday morning, I downloaded some software and made the first bit:

But I don't think it's going to cut the mustard. Partly because the software has about six clip art images, and I think I've used them all in one go.

Is anyone better at animation than me?

Even a tad better?

THANKS.