Well Sunday had been set aside as a day to re-work material for the Fringe show.
But of course very little was done.
I desperately delayed starting working by suddenly deciding to tidy up the garden for a bit instead, re-arrange the furniture in various rooms, read the Sunday papers, played the congas, made up some compilation CDs etc etc before eventually sitting down at 8pm doodling on a blank piece of paper.
Never mind. I'll do it all next weekend. that's it. The last chance saloon.
It's very pleasing that the recent spell of fine, warm weather has ended to coincide with my return to wage slavery. Quite right. I hate the thought of slackers enjoying themselves in the sun while I keep UK plc afloat.
They should get a job. Haven't they got anything better to do than lounge around all day writing self-indulgent Internet diaries, playing golf and lazing about in the sun?
Bring back National Service. that's what I say.
I hate to see people not realising their full potential.
Although, as Dylan Moran, says "Your potential? Leave it alone. It's like your bank balance. There's always less in it than you think there is..."
I'd forgotten what that "It's-Sunday-night-oh-shit-I've-got-work-tomorrow-feeling" was like. I don't like it much. Bah!
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