Not only because it’s recycled, but it’s utterly relevant to the past two days as well.

Oh no, do pardon me, that wasn’t a hangover at all.

That was the most vicious, biting, rough 24-hour stomach bug in the world.
Ever.

One moment I thought I was suffering the long-term effects of old-lady drinking, two hours later I’m yak-ing like the world would end if I didn’t.

It was a long, horrible night.
Not only for me, throwing up every twenty minutes or so, and other vile things I can’t and won’t describe; but for the four people living very close by me, who had to put up with not only loud sick noises, but running on heavy floorboards, locking and unlocking the bathroom door, my lady-macbeth-esque face washing every time – as if that would actually help – and the bedroom door with the loudest squeak in the world. Ever.

The sound-track to the night ran something like;

Squeak (quiet jolt as anna wakes up)
Thump.

Nyieeeeeeee. Nyieeeeeeeeeah. Slam.
Paddapaddapaddapaddapadda

Nyi - whap (bathroom door hits wall) - nyiie – slam – CaChunk.

“Coff. Plew. Myrrh. Fotou. Mheeerr.”

(anna feels sorry for herself) “eow. whimper. meep.”

Whoooosh. Splash. Splash. “meep.”

Ca-chunk - Nyiie – Nyi.

pad. pad. pad. pad. pad.

Nyieeeeeeeeeee. Nyieeeeeeeeah. Slam.

Thunk. anna hits the bed again. Until twenty miutes later, when it’s

Squeak!
Thump.
Nyiiiiii…

Etc. all night. Throwing up for 8 hours solid. Joy.

And now everything’s fine. I’m fine.
The lights are flickering on and off, but that’s not my fault, there are gales.

I don’t get wind.

Sorry, that’s not as in ‘I don’t fart’, I do.
I mean, everyone does. Don’t they? It’s alright to fart.
Not that I want to talk about the fact that I fart. I don’t fart that much anyway. I wouldn’t say that I fart an ‘unreasonable’ amount. Just sometimes, like all of us, I fart. Not that much though. Now I’m talking about it so much it sounds like my life is a constant stream of noxious gases, like I walk around all day pumping, rasping and squelching.
I don’t. I really, at this point, want to stop talking about farting.
But I want to make clear, at this point, that while I may fart sometimes, which is an entirely natural and human thing to do, I don’t do it very much, not very much at all, and when I do, I do it in a very ladylike fashion.
thank you.

I don’t understand wind. As a concept. And that’s wind as in wind that blows. From the sky. Or across the sky. Or across me, more specifically.

I know it’s something about high pressure and low pressure and clouds and something and other stuff.
And I know that as wind Quantity goes, there was less in Manchester when I lives there, and there’s an awful lot more of it here.
We have a lot of wind.
but that’s a wholesome vegetarian diet for you.

sorry.

And I don’t care to know where wind comes from, actually.
It’s another one of those ‘magic things’ of mine. Like shooting stars and music and water and aeroplanes.
People have tried to explain things, but either it doesn’t sink in or I won’t let it.
For a reasonably (i think) intelligent woman, I seem to have a block on certain things.

It’s almost as if, and I’m trying to figure this out while typing here, so bear with me, the whole concept of , say an aeroplane flying is So Improbable to me, So amazing, So bizarre, that if someone explains to me how it all works, if someone goes through all nuts and bolts and complex technical things that go into making that aeroplane fly, then there’s that much more that can go wrong and make the aeroplane not fly.
If the whole “Aeroplane flying” thing is, however, enabled by one thing -“magic”- then there’s only one thing that can go wrong and therefore is less likely to.

I have no idea what that has to do with wind.
I started out here with a point.
Damn it.

Co-incidentally, however, I have just farted.

Not really.

I’m still away. Kind of. Sorry, anna is still away. thus the old stuff. I mean, i am kind of here, but really really tired. So sort of not here. Sort of hiding. I know that’s not really on. Maybe I should have had a guest week. I don’t know though… Never sure. I mean, I’ve wondered about those kind of things before, but then… sorry, I’m not here, that was what I meant to say. Nothere. Away. m-hm.

I am Velcro

I was reading my journal from the year before last.
There was an episode I’d entirely forgotten, and felt very embarrassed at the time. But when I read it over again, it all suddenly made sense. Or more sense at the time. Which isn’t hard. But I felt suddenly that I could write a thesis on three words drunkenly spoken.

“I am Velcro.”

That moment has passed, and now it doesn’t make sense again. Perhaps, If I write out the circumstances again, it will, again, make sense. I’ll give it a go.

It was a party. An ‘End of Committee Meetings Party’

We’d not been at the last meeting, we’d been elsewhere drinking wine. And then we’d come to the party. And drunk the party wine. And when that had run out, we’d opened another bottle. It was time to go home. I started swinging my 14 layers around my shoulders, when someone very important asked me a question…

“So, Anna, what are you doing when you finish here?” she said, in a terribly sober way…

“Helen!” I said. It seemed a time for dramatic pronouncements. I don’t actually know if her name was Helen.

“Well, Julie, the thing is…” I said. Searching desperately for the next part of the sentence.

“Barbara…” I have no idea what her name was. I just know she was Very Important…

“well…” and by now six people were looking at me, waiting for me to make this grand announcement. I, of course had no idea what was about to come out of my mouth.

“I am Velcro!” I said. Looking at the twelve people now staring at me intently.
Unfortunately, I obviously felt that this statement deserved elaboration…

“I am the fluffy… no, I am the hooky bit of velcro. I am like the hooky bit of Velcro, flying around the world. Just trying to find my ‘fluff’.”

And, after agonising moments of silence and staring, someone else admitted that she knew exactly what I meant. And everyone stared at her instead.
Which gave me a chance to run out of the room.

But the thing is. I think I may know what I meant now too. But I’m not sure I could explain it. Does it need explaining?

Anna is away til the end of february, and this is her attempt at filling the space by recycling old things from little.red.boat’s archive. There’s something strangely alluring about posting an old piece of writing about an old piece of writing. Either that or it’s complete twat.

A change of direction

In a state of complete blockedness with work, I have decided to change direction and become a bestselling children’s author like JK Rowling.

Francis the jolly blue biro
A story for children

Once upon a time there was a blue biro called Francis who lived on a desk in a bedroom with his friend Julian, who was a felt tip.

Francis spent his day basically lying around on the desktop, every now and again being picked up and used to write on pieces of paper.
Sometimes he lay next to Julian, and sometimes he didn’t, but that didn’t affect their relationship overly much as sometimes felt tips and biros need a bit of personal space, as much as sometimes they need the company of other pens.
Francis and Julian, as many best friends do, enjoyed a comfortable silence for many hours together, mainly because they couldn’t talk.
Because they were pens.

The God of Francis and Julian’s world was a big pink person, who every now and again would scoop them from their horizontal resting places, and prop them in a big white jar with a whole big multi-cultural community of pens, where they would nestle snugly with other biros and felt tip pens. While it was always easy to tell Julian from the other felt tip pens because they were all different colours, once Francis was in the jar with all the other blue biros, it was very difficult to tell which was…

Hang on. Which was he?
Oh, sod it, lets just say he was this one.

Francis had no discernable personality characteristics, being a biro, and couldn’t even write upside down.
Which was rubbish.

He was used only now and again, and one day the God of his little pen-ny world left his lid somewhere, and didn’t put it back on again, and his little rolly nose got all dry and he couldn’t even write at all without a whole bunch of really vigourous scratching and scribbling first which was pretty sore for little Francis - or would have been apart from the fact that he wasn’t, of course, a sentient being and had no capacity to register pain.

And then one day, the big mean God of his sad little desktop world left him on the floor, and someone stood on him, and he broke in the middle and all his insides leaked out all over the carpet,
and the last sounds that Francis heard, before he slipped out of this world, were angry voices cursing his very existence,
swearing, and cursing,
and shouting.

And that was the end of Francis, and no one cared.

Not even Julian.

The End

Oh, stop crying kid, it was only a fucking pen.

I have changed my mind, perhaps I won’t be a childrens author.

Anna is away til the end of february, so is recyling some things. Some of said things are less than a year old. Which is frankly shocking.

my conversation, strapped into my seat, first thing yesterday morning.

The lady next to me flexed her fingers and breathed deeply. She sighed. She sighed again.

‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she said, ‘but I’m a very nervous flyer’

‘Oh, that’s fine - will you be okay?’ I said, even managing to sound worried.

‘Yes, I think so, I’m just always thinking an engine is going to fall off or something.’

‘Oh!’ I said, reassuring chuckle in voice ‘…I’m sure that wouldn’t happen.’

‘Why not?’ She swung round and stared at me, ‘It did that time I went to Greece!’

What to do here? Ask? And risk having scary scardy-lady revisiting trauma in the next seat? I don’t think so. Ignore it.
Best way.

‘Oh, well, then, that’s, that’s…’ think of something Anna, something.
‘….great! It means you’re pre-disastered! Once something big like that happens to you in a little way, it can never happen again in a big way! You’re pre-disastered. It could surely never happen again.’

‘I’m sure it could. Bad things are Always happening to me. Always.’

Even I was starting to get nervous now.

‘Really? Well, not me. I’ll have you know, I’m an exceptionally lucky person. And you’re sitting next to me. So you’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine.’

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, my name is Brian, and on behalf of my crew, I’d like to welcome to flight 77, we’re just securing the ‘plane for take-off. When we do take off, we’ll be heading up to Glasgow, in a pretty straight line. We’ll actually be flying a great deal lower today than usual’

A squeak from the seat next to me.

‘…on instruction from air-traffic control. Whether that’s because it’s exceptionally busy in the air, or short-staffing in the air-traffic-zone, we’re not sure. It’s not unusual’

Actually, that doesn’t help, Brian. But Thanks.

It took another ten minutes of reassuring chatter to get to the point of calm we’d been at before the pointless pilot, Brainless Brian butted in the first time, and then, wouldn’t you know it, after the doors are closed and the chocks away, just as we’re heading toward the runway.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.’

Bugger off, Brian.

‘You may have noticed that we’re taxi-ing very quietly.‘

No, we hadn’t. But it’s fine. Let’s say no more about it.

‘This is only because the approach to runway is breaking up rather, and we’re going slowly, so as to avoid getting any bits of tarmac in the engine. You’ll be glad to know, we’ll be on our way proper in a few minutes or so.’

What was this guy thinking? Is this normal? Does this happen on all planes?

The woman next to me was gripping the armrests so hard her elbows turned white. She looked fit to explode. I’m extremely surprised she didn’t get out and walk. I think some part of her did. She was pale and vacant for the rest of the trip.

Which was fine, by the way.

If the gravel-filled engine did fall off?
Well, I didn’t notice.
And after all, since we were only flying ten metres in the air, it didn’t have far to fall.

[anna is away til the end of february, thus the recycled bibbling]

No, I’m kidding. It’s me.

Listen, right. I mean, I was going to say this before Valentines day, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The thing is that we’ve been seeing each other for a long time now.
Intensively.
Very, at points.

And, no, no, don’t cry, I’m not saying we’re breaking up, but to be honest, I need some time.

I mean, I’ve been thinking about so much. Work, love, sleeping, work, love, television, sleeping, wine, work, sleeping, this scary job application, work, love, wine, and (what was the other thing?) and….. and…

Spending the day developing films and ringing around trying to work out where I’m going when I leave the island. Fine, so far so good;

A: Leave here 7.15 next Friday morning. This is too early, but happens to be the only ferry that connects with a bus, so we’ll leave that be and grumble quietly. grumble grumble. quietly.

B: Four days break in luxury spa hotel, which we get to stay in extremely cheaply because of who we work for. Gosh, what a bind. Swimming and saunas and gyming and film-watching, golf and lovely walks and all I’ll want to do is sleep for four days. But I Will get up. I shall force myself to have fun. Oh, the trauma of it all.

C: Go to Edinburgh for several days. Not sure what I’m doing there. I have one two hour meeting, but have somehow ended up staying for four days. Edinburgh, apparently nice this time of year, but cold. This is fine. We do cold.

D: Daaan saaaf. Move down toward London, via two outlying commuter-belt towns. See first my ex-boss (ish), line manager, friend and mentor, and his lovely wife. And then go and see my dad and step-mother.

I must, must remember to take Christmas presents for my father and his wife. Last time I was going to see them I remembered only fifteen minutes before the train was due to leave that his birthday was in four days time and that I’d also neglected to send them anything for Christmas, so turning up empty-handed would look a little bad. Checking the time, I ran into the nearest shop, luckily a delicatessen, (because God only knows how much my dad Loves cheese. I’m sure I’d like to think that God would have more to think about than my father and dairy products, but we’ll let that go. Theology is for another day.) And ran out bare minutes later with generous amounts of local brie, stilton and mature cheddar, plus a box of mixed highland soft cheeses and some oatcakes.

And on to the train I went. For a four hour journey. From the train station to the bus, on to the airport and there boarding a small plane, for a short flight down to London. Well, a short flight down to London excluding the two hour delay in taking off.
Then on to another train.

On the first train, all was well. For the first twenty minutes or so I don’t think I smelled too bad. Or at least, I didn’t notice it. And I don’t think anyone else did either. No one actively moved away from me, but then, no one actively chose to come and sit by me either. And I would see people subtly sniff the air and then their own clothing, not sure whether it was themselves that were smelling slightly off or not. Gradually, over the next few hours, shrinking in my window seat in a busy train carriage in the middle of the day I passed from fragrant, to smelly, through reeking, to rank.

Or rather, I didn’t. The cheese did, I didn’t. I want to make that clear.

But I couldn’t leave the cheese. This was expensive cheese here, good cheese - no, Great cheese - and an amazing present for my cheese-loving dad.

On the bus it was worse. Buses are smaller than trains, and warmer. Granted, with so many people, it took slightly longer for everyone to pin down who smelt, but they worked it out in the end. And everybody stared at me. I felt like the playground punch-bag, the meek little boy that got picked on at my nursery school, that everyone pointed at, and called smelly-cheese-face; but this time it was true - Because I Was smelly-cheese-girl, and there was no denying it. I smelt of cheese. Really, really badly. Or rather my cheese did. Not me. I should make that clear.

The plane was great. I must admit, the plane turned the whole experience around for me. We’d been waiting in the lounge for two and a bit hours, me with my coffee, and my book, and my hand-luggage, which smelt of old things, big animals and the countryside. It really, really peffed. I got a whole row of seats, pretty much a whole section to myself. Gorgeous window seat, legs stretched out on the seats beside me, no one between me and the stewardess when the drinks trolley came round. And that’s where I hope little smelly-cheese-face is now, I hope he’s happy, wherever he is. I hope he’s revelling in his uniqueness, because smelling of cheese taught me several things:

- That ’smelling of cheese’ highlights how good the concept of ‘Not smelling of cheese’ is.
- That personal space is a very important and lovely thing.
- That even air-stewardesses look ugly when their faces are all screwed up against nasty cheese smells.

Of course, when I got there, my dad had been put on a no-cheese diet for the sake of his heart, and couldn’t eat any cheese at all, which of course was always going to happen.

If I’d bought him an enormous hardback set of the complete Bill Bryson, and put my back out bringing those down, he’d have been put on a ‘no smug-travel-writers’ diet, for the sake of his spleen or something, and we’d have had to throw those away too. We kept the Brie. Brie I like. The rest went the way of all things. To Luton town dump. It awaits us all eventually.

Where was I? Oh yes.
E: then I’m seeing big sis. Hurrah!
F: then off to Huddersfield.
G: then back here. I think.

And that’s it. Hopefully by then it’ll be Christmas.

I know I’m jumping on a story late, and believe me, it’s not because I don’t keep abreast of these things.
I’ve been, as usual, at the front of the news train, but haven’t thought to comment on Janet Jackson’s boozungas because… well, mainly Janet Jackson’s paps are very low. On my list of priorities, I mean.

But really, I should have thought to mention it before. Now I feel a right tit.

I mean, I certainly saw the coverage of Ms Jackson’s bosom in the world’s media.

Sorry, did I say coverage? I meant exposure. The exposure of Ms Jackson’s wombies, which, apparently, caused the biggest problems ever for the US media, and public. What a bunch of charlies.

I mean, at least half of the population over there have happy-sacks, don’t they? I mean, I’m a lady, I have choozies, a great pair too, and, consequently, I’m not too surprised by the sight of another lady’s bristols, because I’ve seen similar things before. I’ve got, like, mirrors and things.

So now there’s this woman, suing for a million dollars because a little mistake, a tiny boob, and all of a sudden she catches a glance of a famous lady’s ladies and this, it seems, damages her wellbeing.

You wouldn’t have thought that one woman’s funbags could cause this much trouble, that one little wap-wap could be such a huge - no – mammoth mammorial mistake….

No, this really is making me angry, kind of, I mean, quite apart from the fact that the problem, as far as I could see, was that Ms Jackson’s chest pillow was crowned by the freakiest nipple that ever lived or roamed the earth. I just don’t see why one woman’s bap should shake the foundations of the new roman empire.

I mean, would there have been this much trouble if we’d caught sight of Justin Timberlake’s winkie?

Well, yes, I should have thought it would, because I don’t think any nation in the world could deal with the sight of a televisual boob where such a bint displayed her airbag, while the large tit beside her bared his little pink mister.

Two bouncies and a pork sword mean only one thing in anyone’s book.
Titwank.
Which brings me to my point. If you want to sue, madam, you’d make a far better case on their singing.

But when I asked him to draw a picture of me asleep, so everyone knew I wasn’t dead, I was expecting a rectangle with a lump on top.

Instead there’s an interesting rendition of my face coupled with a perfect rendition of the bedspread.

Which is lovely.

The bedspread. It’s lovely. I’ve had it for years and as soon as it’s in a room it feels like home.
I think everyone has something like that, a picture or an ornament or a piece of furniture or cloth or something, that, when moving from rented house to rented house, is like a one-step ownership thing.

I’m going to write, I promise, I wish I could explain why I’m busy, but I can’t, not really, and I will, if it all comes off.
I’ll write soon, about, erm:

a) Apples
b) Late night radio
c) lifts (elevators?…)
or, um, or
d) periods.
(full-stops)

And, what’s more, I may illustrate them with selected doodles, like what I’ve always wanted.

Or I could write about anything else.
I don’t know if I’ve been forgetting anything recently, but I’m at the mercy of my crew, so tell me, whatever, or not.

I have to go to work now.
And be very very very very busy.
Sorry.

My love and I disagree on one thing. Just one. The rest of the time we live in a Barbie house.
Alright, I lied, perhaps not just one thing, but one thing that I’m talking about right now.

We disagree on the friday thing.

And I think our pole positions are part of a much larger mass debate.

(Stop giggling at the back there, the words ‘mass debate’ are not funny.)

Anyway, to him, friday is ‘Big Night Out’, it’s part of the whole thing where people pile out of the office, into the pub, talk about work and other things, get drunk, shake the officey-stink off their clothes and go into the weekend full-steam. Or, at least, steaming.

We don’t, I have to admit, disagree on the drinking thing. That’s an important part of my night too.

My night is a bottle of wine, something to nibble on, a big sofa (do not nibble the sofa. Important) or bed, actually, and the television.

All kudos, the television. All praise, all love, all, oh, everything. The televsion.

And, it’s fair to say, they can throw any shit at me they like, as long as
a) It’s American - this part isn’t that important, there have been some great friday night British things, black books, for example
b) It requires no brainpower WHATSOEVER
and
c) Everyone talks at 15,000 words per minute.

I can’t help it, I love my cliche-ridden, plot-predictable, brain-chew, hyper-verbal American shitcoms.

No, that’s not fair. I say they’re shit, But that’s only because I’m used to justifying myself. I love ‘Friends’, I love ‘Will and Grace’, I love ‘Sex and the City’, I love what ever they throw at me. My love for ‘Scrubs’, it must be said, borders on the obsessive and the obscene, and can only be beaten in magnitude by the outrage I feel at the impossibility of buying every single episode on DVD. And I’m not ashamed. That’s just what friday night is. It’s that moment when my brain switches to neutral, there’s a large glass in one hand and a dip-slathered nacho in the other, people are yapping away at me in an accent far from my own in a siuation farcical as fuck, and - important, here - I am no longer responsible for anything.

I don’t have to talk, I don’t have to climb over that stupid shyness wall, I don’t have to think, hell, I don’t have to be anyone at all.
It’s our evening.
It’s just me, Will, Grace, Jack, Monica, Carrie, Chandler, Joey, JD, Ross, Elliot, Karen, Phoebe, Turk, Rachel, and, well, anyone else we want to have along.

And we’ve settled into our routine, my crew, and my love, and me.

He goes out with the real people, and I stay in with me.

Just because we disagree, we don’t have to compromise, do we? If we’re both happy, do we have to compromise?

Because I think each of these friday things is the right one, so it’s probably good that, as a couple, we’re covering all bases.
It’s responsible of us.

But which, and this was my point, which is actually the most popular friday thing?

Unofficial Poll:
(unofficial because probably no-one will comment, and I’ll end up looking like a big foo’)

Unofficial poll, which is the Proper friday thing?

Every now and again, at the moment, I’m doing night shifts as well as the day ones - this may be why sometimes I am a little quieter than normal.

At the end of the shift, a taxi comes and a near-mute driver whisks me from the office to my bed.

He doesn’t take me to my bed. I should stress that.
Because it sounded like he took me to bed.
He doesn’t.
That would be wrong. And, well, vile.

Anyway. After every nightshift, we drive through the edges of the financial district, and every time, I’m affronted by an enormous advert.
It has a picture of a very new baby with a very fat face, and the words;
‘What he needs is a fund manager that wasn’t born yesterday’

Does he really?
Is that what he actually needs?

Because in my admittedly limited otherpeoplesbabies experience, what they ‘need’ is feeding, holding, sleep, burping, changing, more feeding, more burping, more changing and more sleep. And jiggling up and down soothingly, that also helps.

I have never, yet, looked at a baby mewling and thought;
‘Hm. this baby is not happy. I should go and get him a fund manager.’

Hell, I don’t even know what a fund manager is, although i’m guessing it’s someone who looks after the vast amounts of cash we’re all going to have to set aside for our children’s university fees.
But surely that’s what we need.
Unless I’m mistaken, and a ‘fund manager’ is actually some kind of teddy bear or brand of nappy, junior, I think, will live through the day without one.

I marvel at people who, so prepared for everything in life, can discover the ultimate needs of anything just by looking at it;

‘Look, our two-month-old child with a bulging nappy is crying, clearly what Alphonse needs most right now is a high interest ISA, shares in BMI and a fund manager that wasn’t born yesterday’

‘Oh look, there’s the cat. What that cat needs is some group therapy, an IKEA store card and a subscription to Camping and Motorhomes monthly’

‘There’s our dinner table. What that dinner table needs is a large box of video tapes and a managment consultant.’

‘That toddler needs a divorce lawyer.’

‘This stapler needs some air miles’

‘That bus lane needs a dog trainer, a hair cut and a cheeseboard’

This girl needs some sleep.

Mangling the sock of current affairs since about 9.30 this morning. ish

There was a little story floating around for the last week or so that could easily have escaped my notice.
But, veritable newsbadger that I am, I have snuffled it out, even in the undergrowth, and thank God for that, because the social and moral implications could, quite literally, be middlesized.
For us all.

The situation is this:

In the village of Fair Oak, in quiet rural England, a vicar, who for the purposes of idiot-protection in this post will be referred to as Rev D*vid Snugge, arranged for the chopping down of a 140-year-old yew tree in the grounds of his church. As a fine old tree, and landmark, it would appear that the proper procedure in such cases is to seek permission of the council, or I have no idea, someone.

Reverend D*vid Snugge did not seek such permission.

Questions were asked. The people of Fair Oak had, it would seem, a certain fondness for the old yew, and wondered about the reason for its removal. The vicar, when pressed, was able to give four solid answers for his decision.

1) The berries of the yew are poisonous, and could be eaten by a child, harming it.
(Harming the child, not the berry. Although to be fair, it would also do that).
2) Someone could fall out of the tree. Perhaps a child.
3) The tree could fall on top of someone.
and definitively;
4) There might be paedophiles hiding behind it.

Seriously. I couldn’t make this up.

The possible ramifications of this logic are certainly alarming. Depending on the average height of paedophiiles we might consider making a law;
Anything above a certain height should be chopped down. There might be paedophiles hiding behind it.

I was thinking about this at the bus-stop, and as the bus approached, I came to a horrific realisation. This bus - on the surface an innocent public transport provider - might have a paeodophile hiding behind it. Certainly, this would have to be a paedophile moving at some speed to keep up, but for the first time in my life, I realised this to be a very real possibility.

In fact I was telling this to my boyfriend when he came home, about our possible avenues of protection, about the global ramifications, when i suddenly realised. At over six foot, there was a distinct possibility that my boyfriend might have a paedophile hiding behind him. So I chopped him off at the knees.

So remember people;
This is a very real possibility we’re facing. Quite a large possibility.
And it might have a paedophile hiding behind it.

But I’m not.
I’m hunting wabbits.

That’s a lie.
I’m just vewy vewy quwiii-et.

I’ll be interesting by the end of the day, I promise.

In the meantime, here is a monkey.