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Monday, April 22, 2002

I know, I have been a but shit lately on the updates front. This is because I have been hiding out in a cave, gathering resources, followers and...evil plans.

Good morning. So, on the assumption that I will learn nothing today of any particular import, here's lessons learned from April 1 to April 23.

Yesterday - That the Totally Spies theme tune is probably the most important single cultural document of our young century. And that my father is officially a veteran.

Saturday - That birthday parties - happy communal birthday to Ben, Anna and Toby - are quieter if you bring a dog, particularly if that dog is the utterly silent and thoroughly beautiful Lucy. And that, if you do not feel the cold and have a walkman and a good book, there are far worse things than to be stranded at the Strand from 2am to 4am.

Friday - That at times a good night's sleep is more important than anything.

Thursday - that Lucy the greyhound (see above) is just gorgeous. And very unlike a greyhound, both through a certain natural dignity and a mind-blending tiger-stripe decal effect. Then again, the only greyhound I have ever been particularly familiar with beforehand was walked by a pair of very stylish lesbians in Hoxton Square. Unfortunately, they had a habit of walking the aforementioned dog, which was lively, affectionate and astonishingly stupid, at a bout the same time that a rather frou-frou woman generally decided to give her daschund an airing. Now. Greyhound - big, fast, dumb as a post. Daschund - looks a bit like a stick. You can see where this is going. Every thirty seconds or so, regular as clockwork, the greyhound would hurtle over, upend the sausage beast, and hurtle back to its owners, secure in the knowledge of a job well done. The daschund would right itself, just in time to take another buttfuck moronic racing dog amidships. And again. And again.

Ever seen a really pissed-off daschund? It's just one of many reasons why packs of wild daschunds have never roamed free on the tundra. Even if something three times their size decides to make them some kind of fucked-up sex weeble, they never really scale past petulant.

Wednesday - that Lex and Clark love each other very much. Also, that slash makes you drunk and your car rubble. And that everybody hates Lana, predictably.

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That I am Oz, not entirely surprisingly.

Tuesday - I confess that it all gets a bit inky around here - more later after a smart drink.

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