I JUST CANNAE DO IT CAPTAIN

Well, apparently I can't even do a Scottish accent in text. Never mind. I only lived there for four years.

I know I don't blog very often, and if I thought I had any level of readership then maybe I would apologise for my digital neglect - but I have no such delusions, so I really don't think an apology is necessary. I have been busy, and/or lazy, so I didn't post anything, and that is just how it goes.

Incidentally, that attitude (busy and/or lazy) is how I frequently get myself into the following situation: it is Thursday night, and I like to have the flat nice and tidy for Chris when he gets home from a week away, but I come home from whatever I was doing... and there it is: the washing up. It has hit critical mass, again. There is nothing left that does not need washing up. For three days, I have been drinking hard-water orange squash out of a ceramic noodle cup, and eating toast because it doesn't require a plate. And now the time has come, and it has to be done. I get close to the sink, and move a few plates. The smell begins to rise. Opening the window seems like a great idea until I am reminded, by the sight of a naked elderly man, that my kitchen window faces directly onto the bathroom window of the flat facing mine.
Is there a worse way to commence your least favourite household chore? I doubt it, somehow.

But I got it done! (I should note here that now, every time I say or hear any phrase relating to something getting done, I have to resist the urge to say "Git'r done!" because I watch far too much South Park.) And now my hands feel like sandpaper and my kitchen smells like crap. Having the window open does not make much difference; I will have to put some laundry on before I leave for work tomorrow. I love the smell of fresh laundry. How domestic of me! Never fear, though, I have not quite reached Housewife City just yet: I still occasionally get so drunk that I throw up, and then continue drinking. I am still in touch with my inner seventeen year old. What can I say - I don't think anybody's stomach reacts well to a combination of red wine, vodka, kahlua, amaretto and milk, when they have only eaten a bag of cheesy Doritos all day.

I can't believe I am blogging about doing the washing up and puking like an underage delinquent. I know it's 1am and I have been so sleep-deprived this week that my right eye has developed a sort of manic murderer twitch, but this blog entry is really taking the piss.

I am going to sign off before I start talking about my boobs.

Over and out.