Hobnobs and Broomsticks (without the broomsticks.)

I think it was my father who told me "Leave them f*cking HobNobs alone". If you could see the desk I write this on, you would see the blunt, crumbly disobedience all over my wallet and coaster. If I was at home and they were my dads, I'd be lucky I wasn't writing with the blunt, bleeding stumps that used to be my hands. Luckily these are HobNobs I actually bought myself (granted, with his money). They were on special offer for a quid. I'd like to think he'd be proud I found them that cheap.

Food in the house is running a little low today. It's mainly bread that we're lacking. Even though it's finished, I like to keep the yellow tags for an extra couple of days. Almost as a dairy diary, even though bread isn't technically dairy. Eggs are dairy, but they don't come with yellow tags. Shame. I like to think of those little date tags as a momento to all the sandwiches and raspberry jam toast slices I made. A thanks to the life they have provided and the bread they stopped becoming stale. A race to see if I can eat the loaf before it turns blue and attacks me - like some kind of homicidal yeast smurf.


Or maybe I'm just going a little mental.


It's been hard occupying myself over the last couple of days. I resorted at a point to simply sewing on buttons to my jeans. Not for no purpose at all, that would mean I was mad. It was for some well old braces I've bought. They're rather nice.



Ping.


The things I get up to when I'm at a loose end even baffle me. I sit at the kitchen table with a book I've hardly EVER read. I open it. I put on my glasses. I put down my glasses. I shout "What a crap book". And leave.

I clean because I have nothing else to do. Years spent by my parents trying to get me to tidy what our cleaner once referred to as "Chernobyl on a good day" were wasted. All they needed to do were kill my friends.

I practise handstands that I've never been able to do. I try up against the wall for support, but only end up ripping my Beatles poster down and squirting Carex all over my head. I'm in a sticky, but sterile mess.

I get excited when the doorbell goes or the letterbox squeeks as somebody pushes through yet more local nightclub flyers. Seriously, I don't need twelve of them to read it. It's not a f*cking jigsaw puzzle I have to assemble to understand.

Although that is a GREAT marketing idea.

Andy Walnut

I watched a lovely programme this morning about Andy Warhol, the art man. His life was a bit weird and he often liked to hide away and dress himself up almost like a brand. I really admire this in him. And his art as well I guess.

I should be revising for quite an important Public Affairs exam as part of my university degree. Naturally, this didn't happen today, as I donned my "offensively large" black glasses and instead gave my own little bash at an Andy-Warhol-inspired photoshop painting that I used to love doing back in the day. I rarely find time to draw, paint or do anything like this, so it was a welcome return to days spent on a laptop doing nothing more than essentially colouring in. Oh how times have changed since dot to dot crayon drawings.

Anyway, this is my first go.

My girlfriend doesn't like it. She thinks I need to add more colour, but I argued that it would ruin the style if I did. It's uploaded a little odd, but I'm open to comments and criticism. But not really criticism, or I'll pull your kneecaps off with cheesewire.