Well blog folks, I'm stupidly tired and there seems to be no pause in the frenetic workings of the world for a small bean such as myself to curl up in a ball and catch a few zzzzzzs.
Incidentally I'm now mildly more awake having just switched on my mp3 player and had Razorlight blast WAAAAY too loud after I turned up the volume to listen to some stand-up earlier. Side note.
It may not show, in fact it definitely doesn't show, but I usually plan what I'm going to write in my blog space for an hour or so before I start so that it has a narrative structure. Today I haven't. Not that I usually expect my narrative structures to be too coherent as I want my blog to be an accurate reflection of me, but I usually try a bit.
Mp3 player is now playing frizzling sounds at me. I am at the point where I'm not sure whether to find it and skip the track or just let it play out...and now it's back at music - just as I was reaching for my bag. Dickhead.
So today is quite unplanned as I'm tired and busy and can't really think of anything of great interest that has happened to me lately. You could count last night where I fell asleep on the last train back from my gig in Shoreditch and slept all the way to Croydon. No, I haven't moved to Croydon and I was pretty sad to be there. Never one to be kept down by the failures of my own awake juices, I booked a taxi and asked them politely to take me home. The man on the phone was more than happy to do this and fairly shortly my taxi arrived.
I opened the door to the taxi and the smell of incense hit me like the untracable smell of vomit you get when you go into certain nightclubs; everything looks normal but you know it must be there somewhere.
The train I'm on now smells very strongly of garlic. Very strongly. I hope it isn't me.
But the incensey smell was weird because he had a magic tree which should theoretically have made everything smell like magic tree. But no. Now, I have come to accept that either I have blinding luck getting nutty taxi drivers or that all taxi drivers are seriously interesting people.
Of the 3 taxis I went in yesterday; 1 driver was perfectly lovely and nice, the 2nd had some sparkling thinly veiled racist comments about London which he followed up with an excited spiel about his upcoming trip to India which I thought oxymoronic at best and in all senses of the word. But this 3rd, and quite unexpected driver, was totally interesting. He was very inquisitive about how good the service had been so far - when I remarked that it was quite perfect thank you he responded that they were always 'at my service'. He then continued to repeat the words 'at your service' all the way to my flat...at first I smiled, then I got a bit worried, then I started trying to think of other services I could put to him to help me in my day to day life. I struggled a bit as the smell of incense was overpowering and at least 70% of my brain was trying to block out the fear that I was goign to die shortly in some sort of butler/taxi death trick.
I did not die. Miraculously I paid and got out of the taxi, closed the door, opened the door again to retrieve the part of coat that I'd shut in it and then went home to futon. I am in a love hate relationship with my futon at the moment. I love the fact that replacing the word futon with bed makes me feel I am grammatically incorrect. For example -
I climbed into bed = fine.
I climbed into futon = a bit wrong sounding.
I hate the fact that I wake up every morning feeling a bit runover.
I love the fact that the lack of bedhead or futonhead, if you will, means I can sleep either way round in my futon and it doesn't matter. Adventurous says I.
I hate the fact that everything being so low to the ground makes it hard to keep tidy. This may also be the fact that I live out of a suitcase and have done for the last 2 months. It is desperately difficult to keep your posessions neat in a suitcase.
Well, there's a lot of futon based facts for you. And for those of you that didn't even know I sleep on a futon - what a day it is for you! Seriously off the charts exciting.
Hmmmm...it turns out a lack of planning for a blog doesn't actually seem to make too much difference. And as I have no means of measuring my readership levels and enjoyment of content anyway I suppose it doesn't matter. I have all the control. And all of the futon. Ah futon.