Claudia visited, and it was very nice. She stayed for a whole week, which is a rare novelty amid the usual fare of fleeting three-day visits. It's been going that way for approaching four years now, so it's a cause for prodigious celebration that she is soon to be living in London, for to be doin' her Masters degree. We visited her new halls of residence and environs, which are nice enough despite the latter including Elephant & Castle. Fortunately there is a route from halls to buildings that neatly cuts out this scum-magnet entirely.
Also we visited Hampstead. This was nice, but we sort of got lost immediately upon leaving the station. I blame this disorientation on Hampstead station's lifts, which precisely recreate the extremely uncomfortable negative-G sensation of reentering the Earth's atmosphere in a delapidated Russian Soyuz capsule. So we wandered, dazed, into Hampstead's residential area rather than the bit which has any shops from which to purchase fetching yet useless trinkets. This was not all bad however, because we got to see many different beautiful old houses that we'll one day be able to afford, when Claudia's plan to pimp my tender buttocks to the rich and famous finally pays off. On Friday we braved the hazardous train journey through Kentish hinterlands to visit my sister and her chap in newly-purchased house. This was good fun, we bled the charity shops dry of questionably-sourced goodies, went to the local Chinese (where Claudia made me very proud by actually nearly finishing her bowl of inditerminate vegetable matter in rice), wore a selection of my sister's bizarre hats, and met the strange cat which seems to have adopted them. Good times.
Claudia's gone back to Cardiff now. I miss the woman and the many strange noises she makes. There will be an evening of destruction, however, 18 days hence in picturesque Evesham, to celebrate the end of her exams, upon which she will forever evacuate Cardiff, and hopefully nuke the site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure.
Man, my front room is hella stinking of animal piss. Two theories exist to explain this; The first involves delinquent foxes liberally relieving themselves in the back yard. The other, slightly more far fetched theory is that my neighbour is actively encouraging his rottweiler to piss on our fence, thereby wafting heady waves of piss-stink into our house. It may sound paranoid, but it's exactly the kind of low-level passive aggression my family's been putting up with from the miserable cunt for years anyway. Still, I recently found out that his underage daughter has spawned the blasphemous offspring of some anonymous yoof, which is chucklesome. Hahaha, fuck you, other people!
Hey, the "rozzers" totally "busted" a cannabis factory in a house a couple of streets away from me! This is bad news for the local wasters, but great news for me, because now I can go outside without the heady fumes therefrom inducing altered mental states. It was so strong that sometimes I'd go out to do the shopping and end up in an involuntary trip, floating in the fathomless gulfs of some ersatz reality outside of Euclidean space, communing with unnameable polyhedral entities that dance blindly and eternally around the very centre of chaos itself. Which is not what you want when you're asked to enter your PIN number. Anyway, apparently it was this thick green cloud of dope-funk that led the police to the place, possibly having used specially trained Sniffer Hippies. It's great news for fans of inhaling oxygen! There were a few photos of the place in the local paper, and it looked like bloody Cambodia in there. I'd not be surprised if there were primitive tribes living in there, worshipping the grow lights. Also:
- I ate some after eight mints that were in the fridge, even though it was only ten past six. Come to think of it, they do not specify if it's 8AM or 8PM on the packaging. Anyway, some rules are made to be broken, and it's my prerogative to stick it to the Man.
- Some worthless blowjob set fire to the Cutty Sark. That ship has a special place in my heart, I used to play around on it when I was little and it's been a part of Greenwich for so long, which is why I hope someone finds the guy and "Cutties" (cuts) off his "Sark" (male penis!)
- Today I was on a packed tube train returning from work, and a metalhead-type guy next to me had his arms tattooed with basically the entire cast of The Simpsons. They were drawn in that slightly creepy, WRONG style that is the hallmark of all third-party Simpsons artwork attempting to look like Matt Groening drawings. A sweaty Nelson Muntz was grinding into my forearm, erotically! I left the train with half a boner.
That's all I can think of, at any rate.