Day 104: I Leave A Summons

Again this morning, a running; a thumping; two sudden bangs. I leap from my pit and compose A Note.

TwatBoy -

Could you pop down later so I can demonstrate "acoustics"? I know it's a pain in the arse, but let's get it over and done with. Every time you slam the front door, I wake up, and I'm REALLY TIRED now. Won't take long.*

Cheers

NWM

The note has been Removed from outside the front door, but no message left in return.

Whatever next, I wonder! Will TwatBoy turn up this evening? Will I ever sleep again? How many times will I have to slam his head in the front door before he realises that it is heavy, and therefore makes a loud noise when it is slammed? Will I disappear for months, only to re-emerge outside the Old Bailey wild eyed and unrepentant? And what is the word for the killing of a neighbour? Twaticide?




* Use of ironic apostrophes around "acoustics" and the expression "pop down" are clear evidence of my mental distress. I reckon I'd get manslaughter and that, as long as I don't cut him up and feed him to the squirrels.

Day 103: I Enjoy A Light Dinner

There is nothing that can't be cured - even losing all your electronic messagery - with a nice hot bowl of Cock Soup.























And it says "Island Pride", not "Island Ride". I checked. (I am 37.)

Day 103: I Am In Shock

I have just checked my email. Every email I have saved, or have sent (and saved), or have filed away in a special folder because it is Important, has disappeared.

This is Bad. Some of them are about work. Some of them are important because they are from people I like. Some of them would have allowed me to do my tax return. I have sent an email entitled 'HELP' to my chum with the server.

I am going to drink rum and forget. I think I should have gmail, but I don't know how.

Fuck.

Day 103: I Have Some Questions

Look, this is a one-off. Thing is I have some Questions and don't know where to get the answers. I am v. anti- blogs about blogging and that but, er, um, well, ah.

1. Mr Dave Shelton's Monkey Drawing aside, how boring IS this template? More to the point, does it matter? I am often Anxious about it, as others seem to make so much effort to make the Full Interface Experience an enjoyable one. Then I find others that are even more plain that this one, and it doesn't matter.

2. When you add someone to your blogroll, should you ask them first? (Top two to the right are new additions, and splendid.)

3. Once someone's on your blogroll, is it Very Rude to take them off? I change it quite a lot. It is an Honest Reflection of what I read with a small pipe and a glass of lemon barley water. I found The Surrealist Compliment Generator this morning, for example, and have been playing with it for whole minutes at a time. ("You have not yet reached the depths of your depravity". "Your skin emanates such a porcelain sheen that I am tempted to stamp WC under your bosom and across your armpits".)

4. On a scale of 1-10, how fucking annoying is my archive? (If you don't care, don't answer. I expect no answers.)

5. If I ever get a job, can I still be "non-workingmonkey", on the condition that I don't write about work? (Which I wouldn't, as the Temptation Would Be Too Great, and I would be Discovered and probably Removed From (the) Office.)

6. Why do the bubbles in my bubbly bath disappear when I use soap? (I like to get a nice lather up on my fur. But I also like bubbles. Not Bubbles the chimp, he's an idiot. Bath bubbles.)

7. Is it the Work of a Twat to post questions about blogging and that? (The answer is yes, I fear, but I am Desperate.)

8. Is it possible to export a gibbon overseas? And if so, could you send him in a basket?

9. Why are there no parking restrictions on the bit of road just before Brixton Railway Bridge, leading to unspeakable traffic all the time and constantly?

10. Why can't I make chocolate mousse or poach eggs, when I can make meringues, cakes, pastry, choux pastry and other stuff people have problems with sometimes?

Day 103: I Cannot Move My Head

A terrible noise. A thumping; running feet; shouting; a slam. I am startled awake and sit upright in a panic, at which point a sudden exposion takes place in my neck. I now cannot move my head to the right. I hold TwatBoy personally responsible. I can HEAR him shouting in the front garden. He is doing something with a broom and SHOUTING at my neighbour about EMPTY BEER BOTTLES.

He has avoided me all week, but you would think that he had learnt something by now. Apparently not. Despite being rich enough to own a £250,000 flat at the age of 27, he is obviously very, very stupid. I shall pour the Ibuprofen gel I am only now rubbing in to my shoulder into his mouth and see if that kills him or, at the very least, makes him very, very ill.