I’ve just got back from feeding my mates cat, with no bra on. Liberating. I wonder if it knew? Wonder if it felt the release of my otherwise incarcerated pets. This is the sort of thing that will keep me awake for hours sometimes. Wondering whether a cat would know that I wasn’t wearing a bra, and wondering if it did know, whether it would judge me. This is me living life on the edge, oh yes.
Driving down the motorway with no undergarments on gives me a burgeoning desire to flash other drivers and go ‘look, they’re free’. Other people worry about war, and their grandparents, and the state of the economy, not me, I just worry that I could get used to the sense of liberation and find myself in twenty years with my nipples caught in between my big toes and the flesh of my breasts vaguely resembling the skin of a blue whales mouth, all lined and stretched, and covered in molluscs.
Anyway, I managed to get through the whole of January without a boozy drink touching my otherwise thirsty gob. Managed to raise £365 which is pretty good I suppose, given that I’d have probably spent that on Sherry.
So during my dry days, it gave me time to think. To come to terms with the fact that next year I’m going to be 40. Yep. I know I’m only 38 at the moment, but it does my head in that I’m 38 this year but next year I’ll be 40, with the 39 in between, but I don’t like uneven numbers, so 2013 doesn’t count.
So bring together the fact that I’m getting on, subconsciously my brain is getting me ready for it, by taking me to Tesco and making me buy a slow cooker. Which was also in the same week I bought my first pair of comfortable Clarks shoes, since I was about six. Really wanted to put my feet in the foot measuring machine but I don’t think old people are allowed to do that. I’ve always had feet like trotters so I doubt they’ll be much change in the measurements, maybe my hooves have got wider.
Clappy clapperson next door has been going off like a gooden all week. It took me a while to realise the man has a form of Tourette’s, and isn’t just applauding himself every time he cooks a good meal, watches a brilliant programme, or has a good shit, although I’d applaud that if I could.
I’m not sure but I think he’s taking to head butting the wall. I used to live next door to a woman, who had a severe mental illness, and I would quite frequently be woken up by her pained screaming, that she was going to shoot me, whilst banging her head violently on the wall. The shrillness of her voice would travel so angrily through the walls that you would actually think she was standing at the end of your bed threatening to kill you, whilst calling you all the names under the sun, and accusing you of doing things that you had no idea that you’d done. So, having a man clapping his way through the day, is a welcome change to the straining threats of murder. Sometimes we like to join in the clapping and sometimes we inadvertently set him off if we’re having a dance in the dining room, as we do in this house. The Macarena is one of his favourites, but the chorus from Car Wash upsets him.
I had one of my favourite comic road trips this week. Went on a visit to Bristol and back in one night. Sometimes the thought of travelling in a car load of comics is one that I don’t usually relish, with people trying to out funny each other, people with bad manners, and sometimes just travelling with twats. But this was ace. I don’t think I’ve had such a good time since I was trapped in a bathroom for three hours, at a party on my own, with all the booze and the only toilet.
This was just an absolute delight. Aren’t people fab sometimes? People with no agenda, no pretention and no inhibitions. I love that. And the gig itself was fab, and the trip home equally as fun. We stopped at a service station for a cuppa and I actually didn’t want to come home. Think that says a lot more about me perhaps! Anyway, if I can have more journeys like that please, that would be ace. (I once got stuck in a car with a burlesque dancer and a lesbian, but that night we never speak of). So thank you to the Pearl Diver, thank you to Ibuprofen (yes you Mulg’s) and thank you to Dolan for being wonderfully grumpy. Here’s to Trumpet Punching, and Willy Dicks Cox.