28.09.2010 - 4:55 p.m.

Like a winters night all is quiet in the office of work and for most of the day i've been on my own, expanding my knowledge of the internet, although when i said quiet i meant sort-of quiet. Due to some suspect forklift driving in the near past we've got the builders in (which is not a euphemism) rebuilding a wall, and said builders have bought with them a small dog which has consistently over the day been squawking and screeching non. fucking. stop, and sounds exactly like a large and vocal seagull being strangulated. Ahh, they say it's only 12 weeks old, i think the little bastard will be lucky to reach 13 weeks, some of us are trying to get some sleep.

My baby is going on holiday with her sis and friend to the Canaries for a weeks worth of sun and relax and huge spreads of food, i'm staying home and playing at zoo keeper. She needs the sun to recharge before we descend into another shitty british winter and hopefully the fancy hotel food choice will stimulate her appetite which is MIA, presumed fucked up by the radiotherapy. Food was her drug of choice over alcohol and everything else (not that she took any kind of proper drugs) and now she's lost it, when you've spent your whole life living to eat, suddenly now having to eat to live because eating makes your mouth hurt and your stomach has shrunk is a complete bastard.

I'm gonna miss her even though it's just a week, i never seem to sleep well when she's not beside me, i sort of revert back to single man stage whereby it's ok to have the last spliff of the night right before bed even though i know i won't sleep because of it. At least we get to have a hollywood style reunion at the airport next week when i pick them up.

That is, a reunion where the two love interests hug and kiss joyfully at the arrivals terminal, not where the terrorists blow up a departure gate while smoking Gauloise and talking in affected swiss accents, although provided we got out of it with just scratches and maybe a sexy scar for me, i'm all for the terrorist thing too. I know how to shoot guns, i could save the day by mowing down the steely eyed mercenaries from behind who weren't paying attention to me because i'm just another cowering dumb civilian, then sell my story to some shitbox paper and get paid enough from the book deal to fuck off our ginormous mortgage once and for all.

Back in the real world i'm gonna be working until i drop to pay off this bastard, in five years we've paid fifty five grand to the bank and only ten grand has come off the capital, it make me fucking shake with anger. I know they say that as it goes on you'll start paying less interest and more capital, but with interest free money we could clear our mortgage in fifteen years, probably less, instead i'll probably end up forking over twice the value of the house over the life of the loan just for a place to live. If this wasn't such a chicken shit country i'd protest, but when you can't even see the top of the walls in the maze and you've got dependents, you're better off just finding a way out no matter how long it takes than trying to burn a shortcut through it and potentially fucking up three lives instead of just your own. Grrrrr.

I'm consoling myself by going to Bedrock at Brixton Academy (or whatever it's called now) on saturday and meet up with friends i don't see very often, even though i'll barely be able to string a sentence together we'll hopefully chat and gas and stuff and catch up over the last few years. Then home sunday to a quiet house excepting for animals shouting at me for not feeding them when THEY wanted, and monday in bed hiding from Blue Monday, if you don't come out from under the duvet it can't get you. Although i'll be at work for the Terrible Tuesday, although i may be 'sick' that day, at least i can dial in from home and get stuff done so i don't feel like a complete fraud.

Given my slowing down as i age i don't imagine i'll be visited by Weepy Wednesday, i just can't ingest the quantities like i used to which would subsequently lead to a completely shit following week. I don't know if i'm alone in this but the heaves i get during the brief come up phase get worse with every passing year, maybe this could be cured by having stuff in my stomach but i don't want to risk the experiment by actually barfing on someone, heaving with an empty stomach just looks bad, heaving with a full stomach could potentially be highly embarrassing, i'm not ready to be 'that guy'.

I got my bike working again after a long period of disassemblage to identify carburetor and associated fueling issues, so i'm all leathered up again and looking gorgeous, as it happens i got the bike working just in time for me to rear end someone in my car at a roundabout and now the car's in being repaired, it was my fault but the other car just got scratches, i stoved the front of mine in and broke the engine mounts, something ain't right with that, seems too disproportionate. Lessons learned i suppose.

At least until i do it again. This was the second rear ending that required a garage to fix (my third in total) over the course of my driving life, i can't seem to stop sabotaging my life like that, just when shit's going ok i manage to be a twat, luckily J's ok with me being an occasional twat as long as i keep looking after her. But that little voice we all have, the one that in the dead of night that reminds you in a small voice of every single time you've made an arse of yourself, every time you've wanted to rewind time but can't, that little voice keeps stock of all these stupid fuckups.

I hate that voice but i don't know how not to be the me that makes the fuck ups, how can you be someone else, or do you just have to live with the voice and make the best of it, there've been many occasions where i've wanted to be someone else, or at least not where i was at the time. Life's stupid. I'd say that maybe i'll get better with age but i'm pretty sure that ain't going to happen.

Boooo.