A week gone. Little writing done. Advanced a level in martial arts. Had an overdose of teatowels at number 1 daughter's school play. Failed to buy a christmas tree. Failed again to buy a christmas tree. Decided to let missus go out and buy christmas tree instead. Failed to return any phonecalls. Felt guilty about not returning calls. Still haven't returned calls. Been up late helping missus with most recent MBA submission. Been up late pouring calpol down the neck of number 1 daughter who has a cough. Been up early because of work.

 

*breathe*

 

Dragged dental-phobic missus to the dentist. Paid TWO-HUNDRED FUCKING QUID for dentist to fire x-rays at her head. Had advanced warning of the NEAR FOUR-HUNDRED FUCKING QUID bill they're lining up for the treatment. Set-up new wireless router at home because ORANGE ARE BUNCH OF C*NTS who keep insisting I reset a modem that's CLEARLY FUCKING BROKEN. Forgot work network log-on password. Forgot new Gmail password. Remembered Gmail password and crawled to IT support for work password reset.

 

*breathe again*

 

Remembered mother's birthday. Felt bad as I forgot number 2 step-dad's birthday. Bought loads of christmas presents. Missed delivery of most christmas presents. Lugged a hundred kilos of old books up to the attic for storage. Failed to locate christmas tree decorations. Not that that matters yet.

 

I think I'm going to stay up very late tonight drinking wine and killing shit on my Xbox.

 

I need a vacation.

Firstly, tip-o-the-hat to the excellent arseblog for the word *boilk*. I suggest you check it out, it may be an Arsenal blog, but it's one of the best written blogs I've come across in a long time.

 

I now feel very, very sick* and I'm sitting uncomfortably close to my bin just in case... (I once worked for a deputy editor on a well known magazine who once casually leaned over his desk, hurled into his bin and carried on working as if nothing had happend - thanks for the inspiration Dan).

 

Anyway - this is a quick note, particularly for family members who I know read this blog, to apologise for not returning calls etc. I deemed the potential background sound effects caused by my, um, distress unsuitable for broadcast.

 

 

...and not much better. Back in work after an uncomfortable two day relationship with a toilet bowl. Still feeling like death, though. Consequently I haven't even thought about writing, let alone putting any words down.

If this post's heading means anything to you then you a) have my sympathy and b) I hope I have yours.

 

My tactic for drowning out illness through eating has failed. I've spent an uncomfortable amount of time over the last five hours staring into a toilet. I'm about to go back for more and to wave goodbye to the cup of tea I had 20 minutes ago. See you later, fella, it's been real.

An interesting weekend. Living in middle-class Toryville we witnessed santa arriving by helicopter at the local park, before we put the girls on a donkey to go an meet him. I'll explain in a later post. It's far too complicated today.

 

My much better half is currently flat out with some kind of vomity-disease thing and has been in bed for the last 14 hours. I suspect a norovirus. It's that time of year. I'm feeling slightly wobbly myself. I aim to kill or cure by having a MASSIVE breakfast. If I throw it up at least I had a crack at things and won't have to worry about the calories or sat-fats. If I hold it down then I should be OK for the rest of the day.

 

That's the kind of win-win scenario that only has losers. I like it.

 

I didn't get anything written at the weekend. Although my youngest was awake for a large chunk of Sunday morning so, from 3:53am through to 5:07am I had plenty of time to sketch out some further plot ideas while sitting on the stairs outside her bedroom. Depending on how far down the toilet my face is by 8:00pm tonight I'm planning on getting a lot written this evening. The fact that I'm well off the pace is bugging me. A few good sessions at the keyboard should see thing back on track.

 

*sigh*

 

Housework then on with business.

 

Ubi Est Vomitoreum as they may have said in Rome.

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