Sunday Night

There is something about Sundays that makes them spectacularly dreary. Despite my best intentions - today was a total waste of time.

Starting off with a particularly annoying Sunday slot on radio 4, where a gaggle of poorly informed and badly researched bubbleheads tried to review news stories they didn't understand ( notably Boris Johnson's idiot sister - must run in the family ), then the Archers - which I turned off and sat in silence for - and then the worlds worst Desert Island Discs - which mostly involved Kirsty brown-nosing some toff who did pointless, arty things with plain pots to fill in the void left by not actually ever having to live in the real world.  When I was a kid, DID was classed as some kind of inspirational, motivational exercise "one day, son, if you work hard and 'give back' - you too could end up on the radio". Actually, it frequently descends into the chaos of privialige and poncery, like today.

I continued cleaning - I moved a cupboard that has only been in place a couple of weeks and found masses of dog hair behind it - I give up, there is no end to it. I know someone with  2 dogs who always seems to have a spotless house - mine always looks like a gents barber at the end of a busy Saturday.

My poor temper was probably precipitated by being woken 4 times in the night by the car parked opposite as the alarms kept going off in the wind, which appears to be happening again already tonight.

Walking the dogs around Clive Vale this evening, I counted 8 houses with fully furnished Xmas trees, including 3 on Clive Avenue alone - big, brightly coloured shameless fuckers - how anyone can expect a real tree to last at least 8 weeks is beyond me.

You can't seem to move theses days without Boris Johnson being taken seriously as the next leader of the Cons - he's everywhere, pontificating about everything - more alarmingly - he's garnering support with the weaker, spineless, more turncoat tories ( yes, Nadine, I mean you... ) - the man is a fucking clown, and a ruthless, shallow, self-agrandising little shit to go with it - I'd be ashamed to be British with him at number 10.

I have a lot of work on next week - none of it interesting, but mostly I'm just lucky to be working. I'm just hoping to earn enough money to comfortably become a recluse.