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.