Day 83: I Have Lost My Post

They weren't good, so in a way I'm quite happy. There were two of them: a) Piss off, Lily Allen; and b) My Neighbour Is A Twat.

They were there went I went to bed, but have since vanished. I haven't turned them into drafts or anything like that. They're just not there.

I think there is a Thing that is wiping out bad posts on my blog. This is only the beginning. By the time its work is done, there will only be one left (gum/ladygarden incident), and everyone's read that already. Still, there's always Croydon, if only I could bring myself to think about it.

In the meantime, I am going to Notting Hill to move to some plants to Hackney. This blog may not exist by the time I get back, and if the worst happens, well - it's been real, and you're all beautiful, beautiful people. Don't ever forget that, yeah? Reach for the stars. Be who you wanna be. Be YOU. I love you all.

Day 82: I Find The Lollipop People

I didn't stay in bed in the end. I drew my fringe back on with a pencil and went to the gymnasium instead. I walked up stairs and down roads that weren't going anywhere. Then I cycled and rowed nowhere for a bit, and picked up weights and moved them around a bit. I counteracted my exertion by sitting gormlessly in the steam room marvelling at the amount of sweat I produce (and I'm not talking about the sweat that spurts from every part of me in the steam room itself).

I am constantly astonished by how much I sweat. According to Anuja-The-Less-Irritating-Since-I-Am-Thinner personal trainer, sweating is no sign of your fitness level; nor is going red in the face. Which is just as well, otherwise I would be technically dead.

Anyway, after two hours spent in Holmes Place Streatham (I found an enormous scab under the rowing machine last week, and someone's snot wiped on the treadmill; otherwise, it's great), I went to Croydon to meet a dear friend for luncheon (of which more later; I simply don't know where to start).

I haven't seen a lollipop lady since I was a tiny tiny child. In fact, as (according to my mother), I have False Memory Syndrome, I wasn't entirely sure they existed at all. But they do, and they are all in West Norwood.

I saw one, and thought, oh look, a Lollipop Lady. She looks nice.

Then I saw this one. (From the front she looks like a marmoset.)










That's a bit rum, I thought, but no matter; it is merely a Coincidence.

Then - seconds later - I saw a third, but this time it was a gentleman lollipop lady (I assume they should now be called Lollipop Persons. You can see his lollipop there on the left. I was moving at the time.)









I am very, very confused. Do Croydon Council spend all their council tax on Lollipop People? Do the Lollipop People live together in a house, and spend their evenings polishing their lollipops whilst watching public information films? Is there a Lollipop Person Training Course, run every other weekend in West Norwood Town Hall? Do they do practice runs on each other in the carpark?

These and other questions (e.g., why is Andrew Lloyd Weber?), will have to remain unanswered, I am afraid. But let me know if you see a Lollipop Person. I'm still not entirely sure they exist, despite the photographic evidence.

Day 82: I Talk To The Animals

Cat: Miaow.
Me: Get out of my fucking way, you knobber.

Later.

Squirrels: Yak yak yak (squirrel noise)
Me: Shit OFF, you cunts.

Later:

Dog in the street: Woof! Woof! WOOF!
Me: Cock OFF, doghead.


My parents must be so glad they spent all that money on my education.

Day 82: I Am A Guest

Having burnt my fringe off by leaning over the stove last night, I have decided to say in bed today eating very small, slightly sour apples. It is obviously far too dangerous to go outside.

However, much excitement "over at" (I think that's what you say) the weblog of Hot Coffee Girl, who labours under the misapprehension that I am 'sexy' but otherwise seems fairly sensible, despite the fact that she calls me "a real tart" which is strange, for as regular readers will be aware, I have sworn off Gentleman Callers until I can look at myself naked in a full-length mirror without calling the emergency services.

Anyroad up, she wrote from the Americas asking for a "guest post", which I have done. Happily for all concerned, I can therefore lie fearfully in bed all day without worrying about writing my own blog.

Oh, and while you're at it, you should probably go and read Tired Dad. He's awfully good, if a little timid.

Day 81: I Go To North London