I shouldn’t really be here. I have nothing interesting to say, I packed my brain into a moving box at some stage and I can’t seem to find it, and I’ve looked everywhere.
The whole family seems to have gotten scurvy from my lack of intelligent culinary variations of cheap microwaveable food, for they are all very irritable and vocal and demanding. I’ve been hiding in Facebook poker on my laptop in the kitchen, hoping I grow so still they can’t see me anymore.
I woke to hear the Christmas tree tumbling to the hard wood floor. If a tree falls in a sitting room and nobody is there to hear it, let me tell you yes it does make a noise. A very impressive noise. Our giant Bob Marley poster had been pushed off the windowsill by the cat, and had thrown the tree off balance without smashing its giant glass face. Rastafari.
I had a pretty angel on that tree, but she broke her wee porcelain arm in the fall, and her pretty white dove ended up skittering across the floor and under the fridge. I superglued her back together, then superglued my thumb and index finger together for the craic. It’ll be a while before that fingerprint grows back.
Just as I was recovering with a strong cup of tea, I heard a knock on my door. My sitting-room door.
A man… some random neighbour dude walked in, told me he was a friend of Grandad’s which was good enough for me. We watched The Pink Panther for two hours, then he left without saying anything else.