The Buzz Of Life

Notwithstanding the dreadful hangover I had this morning, and the fact that I discovered that I was coughing blood (where did that come from?), I've had a useful and productive day. However, the problem about having a productive day, is that it inspires in me the desire for a reward. No harm in that, you might think – but the difficulty comes in deciding exactly what that reward should be. I am tempted, of course, to go to the pub – well, to the Broadway at least – but this would be to invite again the danger of getting drunk. This is what happened to me last night, apparently. We'd had a long and tiring meeting about this stage-writing festival that I'm helping to organize (http://www.triliteral.co.uk/ – come on people, if you want to see your play on the stage, get writing!), and so when we were finished, I thought there would be no harm in indulging in a bit of the old sauce, early-doors style. What harm could just one drink do?

How wrong I was. One drink led to another and before I could say "I'm going home!" I had somehow lost the ability to think rationally, and so when the stray cat came scratching at my door later, I let him in. Doh!

I don't know which dustbins or back-alleys he's been rooting around in recently because I haven't seen him for a few weeks, but he seemed exceptionally dehydrated. Luckily, I'd recently purchased an additional supply of milk because his thirst seemed unquenchable. I was a little concerned that he might forget (as he sometimes does) how to use the litter tray, but thankfully he was on his best behaviour last night and I need not have worried. However, what does worry me slightly is the rather too comfortable way in which he settled himself down, and his exuberant purring left me feeling strangely uneasy. I felt sure that he was plotting something, and am beginning to wonder if he's planning to return soon, this time for an extended stay perhaps? Hmm, maybe I should move.

Stray cat or no, I think I should move anyway. I've been here too long really – I only came for six months and now I've been here for more than three years. What a waste of money! I pay a huge amount in rent and for the same amount in mortgage repayments (with interest rates as low as they are), I could be buying a palace of my own. The reason for this apparent stupidity is simply that I am inherently lazy about such matters. I'm just so comfortable here, and so close to all the amenities and watering-holes that I enjoy making use off – moving anywhere else seems inconceivable. So, perhaps I should offer to buy my current abode? My landlord lives in America and apparently this apartment is, what his mother described with such a charming lack of tact, his 'pension'. This might suggest that he would be unwilling to sell because presumably, he'd then have to look for another little investment, and he probably can't be arsed. That's the trouble with such people – they're inherently lazy about such matters.

Oh, that's me too isn't it? Lazy. Right, although I feel quite pleased with my productivity today, I think I can only really congratulate myself when I've done something concrete about moving out. The day when I do that will be a genuinely productive day. Well, at least I've made a decision about it, and I now quite feel like purring myself. However, no saucer of milk for me – I'm off down the pub!

Tootle pip, dear reader.