Squalid Existance

I’ve stared blankly at today’s wordpress blog page for about 10-15 minutes now and the conclusion I’ve come to is that I should probably start typing otherwise nothing will happen. Its a day where lots of writing needs to occur and yet neither fingers nor brain are colluding together to allow such happenings. The fingers are going rogue, hitting off keys or finding other things around my desk to move or tidy, while the brain insists of thinking of tracks I should listen to while I blog or what I can concoct out of the random ingredients left in our rather desolate and upset fridge. So far the best seems to be some sort of pesto marscapone lettuce, with frozen peas covered in McDonalds curry sauce as a side dish. I’m not sure how this is all we have. Everyone in the flat has been overly busy and barely at home for days now, so the flat has taken a huge hit with grime and dust collecting like its going out of fashion. Not that dust was ever in fashion. Unless you count Dusty Springfield as part of that team, in which case people liked her in the 70s. We don’t have Dusty Springfield collecting in our living room though.

Our flat is really good at looking like its been neglected. There will about 3-4 clean ups a year that make the place veritably sparkle with Mr Sheen type joy, but housing an actress and two comedians, more often than not it seems to emit a low groan of misery, wondering why there is never enough money collectively to fill up the cupboards or enough time between us to stop the mould from growing on the bath. There is money for that of course but its used for ill thought out bottles of wine from our local shop at 1am when they shouldn’t still be selling it, let alone to us. And there is enough time but I use it to stare at my blog page wondering what I should be typing while my right hand makes a small Kinder Egg mole do a dance. That’s not a euphemism.

I reassure myself on a daily basis that this sort of squalid, Withnail like existence is still better than sitting in an office. Despite having regular money, a social life and evenings and weekends free, I would be close to suicide if I ever had to return. Previous experience of such activities had me sitting at my desk genuinely contemplating how long I’d have to leave my head in the photocopier for before I got brain cancer so I could be let off for the day. Now sitting here, on a Monday, merely trying to write enough jokes about the Eurozone crisis for tonight’s Old Rope, I’m definitely not feeling that sort of suicidal and am far more content sitting amongst the dust. Just a shame I’m more likely to choke to death or die of starvation sometime soon instead.

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