Tuesday, 3 September 2013

Not Single Spies, but in Battalions

Sorrows, that is, they come not single spies but in battalions. Poor old Claudius, Hamlet IV:5.

So yesterday night being exceedingly drunk I banged my head on something - too drunk to remember what  - and being exceedingly drunk I did not deal with the copiously bleeding scalp wound so well. And woke this morning to find my bedsit looking like a slaughter-house in the middle of a battlefield.

Phoned by an agent early doors to offer me an interview. A JOB INTERVIEW! EMPLOYMENT?!?! Except my hair is solid with dried blood and I need a haircut before I look respectable, and probably not ready to make a good impression for a week or so. I am not so sure that my lie explanation, which was that I'm already booked to spend a week in Bristol having sexual intercourse with an old flame, went down so well.

So put the bedding into the washing machine, And just for once the washing machine broke down and about 12 hours later I managed to get my bedding, soaking wet and stinking of washing machine, out of the washing machine. It is now drying (?) into the bloodsoaked carpet.

And just now the bulb on my desktop lamp has gone out so I can barely see my keyboard.

Might as well get stinking drunk again, which is what I am busy doing.

Edit: Now my washing machine has broken down completely. At least the bedding, albeit smelly and rigid,  is *clean*.


x said...

Excellent. If you lived near here I would invite you round for a vodka (you would have to bring your own obviously). I love watching people bang their heads.

x said...

You would get on great with my neighbour Mrs Pikey Scum. She comes round drunk as a skink every Sunday, watching her bang into walls and trip over carefully placed matchsticks is hilarious.