Having one of those evenings where I feel like I ought to be out wearing something short and black and precarious, drinking double G and Ts and thinking I am scintillating until I fall over. Instead, I am wearing a dirty hoodie and mud spattered jeans and have been watching some kind of vintage Transformers cartoon c1982 for what feels like hours with increasing puzzlement. (E: 'So hang on, Optimus Prime is dead? And the things with tentacles have turned him into, what? An evil zombie?' Children: 'Nooooo!' [eye rolling]). Apart from that, I made pancakes and located the Migraleve. This is the sum total of my achievements for the day.
The remainder of the evening stretches out dismally, much as the weepette and I stretch out dismally on the uncomfortable sofa, watching the moths flutter balletically past us, in search of more jumpers to eat. I have just clicked morosely across to gmail, which offers me the following targeted advertising headline: "Terminal sidekick". I fear weepette may be my terminal sidekick.
I am conscious I mainly whine at the moment. Sorry. Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like me to make a horrible cake tomorrow or something? Rude biscuits? Also, I thought if you would like me answer any questions I could answer them in the comments. I could tell you about Belgium! No? Ok then. I could tell you other stuff. Anything! Go on, validate my sad, empty Friday night or the weepette gets it.