"So, Mr Prehistoric make your wheel / And I'll breathe underwater because I like the way it feels"
3 Comments Published by H on 25 May 2006 at 10:34 PM.
I think that perhaps my previous list about medical metaphors was some kind of spooky premonition. Don't worry readers, I haven't come down with a rash cash of metaphoritis or indeed contracted an airborne virus that is doubtless traceable to Robert Palmer. I have however lost almost all of my voice. I think it's laryngitis and my mother has mysteriously produced a large quantity of amoxicillin. I ask no questions this time because I desperately want to get better for Monday, when I set out on my trip. The way I'm feeling now, I think I'll get to Poland and desperately pine after my bed and some tea. All in all, I'm feeling pretty pathetic because, wail along with me, I'm ill. Also, I had a weekend of drinking and arms aloft dancing planned but this is probably nixed in favour of flannel pyjamas, plenty of fluids and sensible foods like haddock and porridge. I am wallowing in self-pity and misery by listening to my new favourite playlist of terrible music. I can't tell you how many times I've listened to Boston's More Than A Feeling without fear of being disowned by you, dear readers.
I have spent the past two days trawling every branch of Millets or Black's in south London. I have amassed what I'm sure is a pile of useless accoutrements (fast-drying, anti-bacterial microfibre towel, day-glo padlocks and something I didn't even know existed, what is known as a "Kag In A Bag". I have never owned anything waterproof in my life and now this unblemished steak is broken by what is essential an all-body-umbrella.) As Toby Ziegler once declared: "[I feel] like I've been screwed with my pants on."
A few things before I crawl back to bed and perfect my air guitar skills. This is the wigsome spider that was in my room a few days ago:
Finally, another random body part self-portrait:
I have spent the past two days trawling every branch of Millets or Black's in south London. I have amassed what I'm sure is a pile of useless accoutrements (fast-drying, anti-bacterial microfibre towel, day-glo padlocks and something I didn't even know existed, what is known as a "Kag In A Bag". I have never owned anything waterproof in my life and now this unblemished steak is broken by what is essential an all-body-umbrella.) As Toby Ziegler once declared: "[I feel] like I've been screwed with my pants on."
A few things before I crawl back to bed and perfect my air guitar skills. This is the wigsome spider that was in my room a few days ago:
Finally, another random body part self-portrait:
If you're going to a foreign country where you don't speak the language, surely it's the best time ever to lose your voice? I didn't know Edinburgh Uni even had any opticianology courses, but I'm glad they were able to produce one celebrity optician (is that the one who looks like Robin Cook except alive)? I'm not sure if we're all supposed to call Southern Comfort "Soco" now (icky name for icky drink), but I'll look forward to your imaginary Girls Aloud marguerita fastival (which you could hold in your local park/back garden/branch of New Look). Meanwhile gargle salt water (not because it'll help, just because I'm mean).
Hi, I didn't get an email since the one on Wednesday (which you sent twice). Is Hotmail not being a friend to you? (I thought Robin Cook and all Scottish politicians went to Glasgow Uni, but maybe that's why he was such an outcast.)
Also, why does the thermometer above your medical metaphor list read just below 3 degrees? Doctor, I think your patient is dead. (I did reply to you on Wednesday. Though my internet connection at work is like throwing shit at a fan and hoping it passes through the whirring blades.)