Mea Culpa

Oh dear, I’ve done it again. I did something so absolutely bad this week that I really must be going straight to hell – and it’s not even as if there was any good intention there (as in being paved with etc). When will I ever learn? I am a very, very naughty boy and (if I didn’t suspect that I’d enjoy it) I’d invite Mr & Mrs Spank to pay a short, sharp trip to botty-land, oh yes I would. But don’t expect the salacious details by the way - I think I’ve said before that some of my antics are too debauched to recount on a family show like this. I’ve also wrestled on here before with the question about the difference between morality and integrity. Well, now I know there is no difference – I have neither, it seems.

But enough of the hair shirt. Some good things have happened to me this week too (though Lord knows I don’t deserve them) and I feel rather buoyed up with thoughts of the future. I was told that a contract I was expecting to pick up (paid work) will not now materialise so I have no work for a few weeks. So, this time I’m going to use the opportunity to write. Firstly I’m going to set about finishing this novel I’ve been working on (before I lose total interest in it), and then I’m going to write a play. Yes, a play. A nice big fat three-act play for the stage, full of costumes and glamour and treachery and despair and even, perhaps, a bit of music. I’m quite excited about the prospect although it’s all going to be terribly hard work (but it might keep me out of further trouble though, oh yes).

My fridge/freezer has stopped working. This is somewhat disconcerting because I now have enough defrosted food to feed the Red Army (and only about two days in which to do so) but more alarming is the fact that I have no chilled champagne! This surely must be an abuse of human rights, but who can I complain to about this? Gordon Brown wouldn’t be interested; he’s off on some jolly jaunt to China or somewhere. I’d try phoning Nelson Mandela but I think I’ve lost his number. Ken Livingstone might be worth a go. Or I could just phone my landlord I suppose. It's a damned inconvenience, that's what it is.

And don’t tell me (Marie Antoinette-style) to drink Gin & Tonic instead – have you ever tried it without ice? Disgusting.