Retrieved this from an attic. Why did I ever put it away? (I think I also had the Wolfman, Mr Hyde, Frankenstein('s monster), the kyphosis-sufferer of Notre Dame, the Mummy, and the Phantom of the Op., but those appear to have been largely lost to time, house moves, and stupidity.)
It still glows.
Good luck recouping his £160 when theweekly.com is now available. (It used to be a local newspaper in Foreskin, Nebraska or something. Delightfully local, I recall.) (Also, obv., Jonathan insisted that The Weekly should be co.uk right from the off: .com be damned as unBritish.)
If anyone thinks I can't easily access my emails from early 2001 they are falling *heavily* to the logical fallacy The Argument from Incredulity.
I wrote about What Happened Next here: tinyurl.com/MailOnSun
(You might like to read it to nostalgically view words like FTP, Internet Cafe, NTL, etc.)
'Confessions of a Killer' is on BBC 2 tonight. Definitely my least favourite of the Robin Askwith series.
Every time I pass this restaurant a voice in my head adds 'Tommy'.
At the magicians' conference I always go to in January. And (Yaaugh!) I randomly discover while chatting that one of the magicians I talk to every year wrote - to reiterate , Yaaugh! - the best-selling ZX Spectrum game 'Booty' (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Booty_(....
So: 'Yaaugh!'
Nerd? Me? Just a bit.
For me, it's worth all the disruption if Reform voters are annoyed on an atmospheric scale.
A long tradition (which no one but the very few Listers here will know is a long tradition) dictates that I forward our family Christmas card to you. Thus, here it is: yours to click.
My Girlfriend: "I *can't* stay in bed with you, I want to go to IKEA and buy that rug you don't like."
The special magic of us never fades.
The loss of Sophie Kinsella is horrible and shames the universe. I frankly don't care how successful an author she was (wildly). Far more importantly, I always found Maddie just a lovely, warm person and it's simply not right or fair that she's no longer here.
Spotify's annual Stats Info Puke has told me, among other things*, that my 'Listening Age' is 21, and also that my 4th most-listened-to artist was Engelbert Humperdinck. Conclusion: young people must be weird.
*Also that, in the 'Club' I belong to, 'Members insist on natural lighting.'
Um... OLED?
An advert just came up in my YouTube feed: "Take a test to see if you have ADHD".
I scrolled right past it.
You know, 'It's funny 'cos it's true'? If only that were funny, that awful cliché would for once be correct.
PS. 'Funny' is an odd word, isn't it? The more you stare at it, the odder it looks.
You'll probably see people *in* Wolverhampton waving at trains passing through there. But it's more a Stevie Smith kind of waving.
It's not the constant vigilance that's so tiring, it's the constant terror.
Came down to London in the car this time. Which is a bit of a long haul but, as always, my girlfriend and I split the burden: she drove, while I watched the road.
3/I picture them just nodding, like I've said enough - maybe too much.
I'm brought back to toothpaste and the present by the sound of the front door slamming downstairs announcing that she's left, with those knickers on now, probably.
Maybe I'm prone to overthinking while I'm in the bathroom.
Maybe.
2/'Then I'll come back.'
So...Um... So (before - for some reason - reconsidering mid-jamb) she *wasn't going to come back*? That would be it?
I picture friends asking, 'What happened, Mil? After all these years?' And me picking at my fingernails as I reply, 'She went to pilates.'
After which, oddly,
1/I'm brushing my teeth in the bathroom and my girlfriend, in a hurry but otherwise naked, sails in and says, 'I'm going to a pilates class at the community centre.'
She dances into a bra as she's heading back out, but, knickers in hand, pauses for a moment in the doorway. She turns to me, and adds,
However, it will include the confidence-building pairing of a Chutzpah Foot Spa and The Podiatric AirTag (for finding your feet).
You will recall with contempt and revulsion my announcing, last year, the 120+ Xmas presents I would be getting for my girlfriend (thingsmygirlfriendandihavearguedabout.com/xmas_presents). I won't do that again this year, to preserve her special sense of disappointment on Christmas morning.
A year. On the 18/11/24 it occurred to me that posting something every day for a year (avoiding politics, reposts, and the words 'sinecure', 'allopatric' and 'zinc') would be precisely the sort of tiny, pointless, self-inflicted, OCD exercise I can't not do. I was correct.
Now I can post 'Whenever'.
I could lay the reasoning out in a matrix, but why spoil the fun you'll have doing that yourself? But - good, bad, or middling - it's better to take no notice; best achieved by not reading them at all. Also, BTW, some press book reviews are written by people who haven't even read the book: fact.
The scales in my bathroom said that my metabolic age is four years younger than my chronological age.
The mirror in my bathroom said that I should change the battery in my scales.
Never willingly. A (maybe rare) case where my personality happens to work perfectly with what I also think is artistically - and emotionally - best. Obv., I know many writers who read them all, and constantly google themselves, and care about their Wikip(a)edia pages, etc. I tear up and hug them.
I’m wondering if it’s possible to get a piezoelectric electric car. So that every time my girlfriend runs into something it charges the battery.
Golly. Sweet of you to say so, Tube Debs. Obviously I won't click the link to the review, because I have *never in my life* willingly read a review of anything I've done (artistic policy; personality). But no doubt it says, 'Interesting cover. *Awful* typo on the final page. Some stuff in between.'
The pause between the train pulling up at the station and when the light indicates you can open the door cannot be measured in time but only in the rise of fear within a human mind. The person who can wait it out fully without stabbing the unlit button with a panicking thumb has nerves of ice.
I woke up this morning with a strip of black gaffer tape stuck to the back of my ear. I did not (Why? Why would you think that?) get into bed last night with a strip of black gaffer tape stuck to the back of my ear. After a time I figured out how this happened, but it was an interesting few minutes.
I was a bit concerned a couple of days ago when I realised that - hold on - no bit of me is hurting. Fortunately, I finished today's run and that situation's now sorted itself out.
