Monday, November 15, 2004

To do or not to do?

Okay, the nonsensical ramblings are over, as is the weekend, more's the pity. On today's to-do list is the unsavoury task of asking for a comp. ticket for Busted's up-coming live travesty in Sheffield. I figured that, if I'm going to drive two 14-year-old girls up the M18 to see their goofy-faced heavy-eyebrowed heroes, I may as well sit in an uncomfortable arena seat with some other bitter, complaining hacks rather than be hunched up in my car for two hours. Hopefully, I've left it too late and all the freebies have gone and I can revert to plan A and/or catch up with Sheffield's finest postman Bob for a quick beer in one of the steel city's grubbiest public houses. Also on today's to-do list is "do some work", which is something I neglected to do towards the end of last week.

Are there are no bounds to the lengths a writer will go to to actually not write? Yesterday, once I'd recovered from all that cheese, I spent several hours disconnecting one mound of computer equipment and putting another mound in place and installing all the essential software that a writer needs (ie, stuff to burn CDs). By then, and by the time the landlord did finally arrive (never met him before, he was quite a cool guy. He spends six months of the year snow boarding in France, lucky bastard) for his inspection, there was no time left to write. Instead, we ate Chinese food, watched Queen's horrific induction into the British rock music hall of fame before retiring to have a battle with a CD player that refused to play track 3 of a 5 track CD. M had penned some of her play while I was out standing in puddles for the night, so we read that (if the theatre industry was, predominantly, located in our bedroom, I would be Larry Olivier. I'm that good.) before slumber overtook me. So, there you go, bedtime secrets revealed. Right, what was that thing on the to-do list I promised I'd get round to today?

At last, someone tells the truth about Peter Kay, while Boris Johnson takes his ball back and democracy proves a tricky bastard. RIP: Dirt McGirt

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