I contemplated a couple of points last night while snacking on various foodstuffs from the fridge. And growing into the couch. And lapping up the solitude of my [clean] apartment.
I also sat staring at my shoes for two hours while pondering the following.
1) It must be shit being a shoe.
They have to walk over floors like the Colony Arms, which is smattered in bits of vomit, cane, cream soda and, probably, microscopic flakes of dandruff. They have to stub out cigarettes, bear my 55kg weight, often on a heel the size of a pin-point, and sometimes, after a hard night clubbing, they’ll get slept in.
2) It must also be shit being eaten by a giant dog.
I’ve never heard this happening to anyone, but it still must be shit.
3) Putting half a block of cheese into a Cuppa Soup is not weird.
When I lived in the States, they gave me dodgy looks when I put various bits of crap in my soup, like cabbage, cheese, onion and tomato. Soup is just soup without the extras.
4) Skiing is incredible.
It’s high time I saved up for some all night clubbing, all day sloping at Val d’Isere.
My last night thoughts were interrupted by The Ant’s boss popping round for a late night cuppa tea, well actually a late night coupla scotches with us fabulous zit-ridden, pyjama-laden ladies. Pulled up on the pavement in his yellow Lamborghini, paced around the apartment in an Armani suit, checked out our toilet and the gangster pictures plastering the door, not to mention the poster of the naked Greek pin-up man nibbling on grapes thrust above his face. In his suit, he sang along to the Southpark soundtrack, which he wholly enjoyed.
Michael Bolton does an incredible rendition of Nessun Dorma. You laugh, but I'm being dead fucking serious right now. I listened to him in the morning mayhem of Oxford Road's traffic-lights-not-working problem, Gautrain construction and what not, and instantly felt calm and light. That Mike Bolton. I've told you before and I'll tell you again, the man just needs some good PR and a new haircut. He's really quite nice.