And on the 7th day, He rested. Or rather, was fucking knackered, emotionally distraught and totally skint, with eyes like black voids and skin like cheap mince.
Wracked with The Guilt, and with my back/shoulders in a bit of agony from the previous night, me and The Kid managed to somehow convince ourselves to stay in bed until about 3pm which suited me fine. Now, obviously we weren’t sleeping the whole time. If you get what I mean. Eh? Wink, wink. We ate hot dogs. And that wasn’t a cheap euphamism…
I was working early on Monday, so it was thought best to head back to mine. We had a right nice walk through Battersea Park (actually rather nice, and full of all sorts of folk doing all sorts of things), into Clapham Junction (actually rather closed, but saw the digital camera that I want) and through Clapham Common (actually just rather cold). We were both totally worn out after this, but still managed to drag our arses out to Bierodrome on the High Street for some tasty nosh. The Kid had some sort of sea-dwelling creature (sea bass maybe?) and I had half a chicken in a chilli sauce and far too many chips. And no booze! Who’d have thought it. That’s like a fish saying, “I haven’t been in the water all day.” Kind of.
Boo hoo for work on Monday, but an early night after watching the totally incredible Planet Earth (no one does it like David Attenborough) ensured I was feeling nice fresh for the following morning*.
*said freshness lasted about an hour. After that, my usually grumpy twat self resurfaced…
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