One hundred

I think that if I never left work, I might be able to stomach it. The problem isn’t being in this seat, panicking and doing various bits and pieces – it’s the anticipation of being in this seat, panicking &etc. It’s like Day Hospital: you know, either commit me or let’s not pretend I should sometimes be painting watercolours side-by-side with those who cannot stop washing their hands. I can’t go from 0 – 100 in a matter of seconds, and certainly not vice versa. I can, however, stay at an even 100 if I don’t sleep or go home.

In spite of the fact that, when I went to purchase the new Stars album at HMV in Vancouver, a simpering sales girl I’d rather not discover commonalities with said it was soooo good, I’m listening to this album on repeat. Because it is soooo good, but also because I’m running low on supplies. Somebody needs to discover a revolutionary new sound and then download some tracks and then burn them onto a CD for me. Please.

We’ve finally caught up with all our television shows, culminating in Channel 4’s Big Fat Quiz of the Year, which was a big fat disappointment from last year’s Big Fat Quiz. Now I know far more about Lily Anal Allen than I’m comfortable with and am beginning to fear that Noel Fielding has lost it (‘cause let’s face it, Russell Brand is more whore than comedian these days). I still don’t know who Rob Brydon is but he’d better not approach me in a dark ally, unless he wants to watch me yawn to death or roll my eyes repeatedly before I kick him in the shin.

Beginning Thursday, I get to rediscover what it’s like living alone, though only for the week. Probably it will be much like it was when I was living alone in Canada, minus the booze and cigarettes and pizza. And Canadians. Actually, it will be nothing like that time, because I plan to not leave the house unless it’s for work. It takes too much effort to go anywhere and mainly I just can’t be bothered anymore. In fact, you can find London in Coventry until further notice.