Well, everyone else is doing it, right? Which is quite possibly theworst reason ever for doing anything. Truth be told, I'm not sure why I'm doing this.
A person who is very near and dear to me is lying in hospital, very ill. For the purposes of this adventure we shall call him Gandalf. Not very original, I know, but it makes sense to me, so roll with it. There is something wrong with Gandalf's brain. This is really unthinkable. Gandalf has an amazing, powerful brain and of all the things that one could imagine Gandalf without, his brain is just not one. Too many people depend on Gandalf's brain for anything to go awry. The brain is indeed a mysterious and magical organ, and therefore you perhaps can begin to understand why I'm calling my dear friend Gandalf at all. We all know that medicine is not the science they like to pretend it is. A lot of shamanism, slight of hand, prophesizing, soothsaying and guesswork goes into dealing with even the basic stuff like cysts, sprains and polyps - and all the little mishaps that can be attributed to moving parts not unlike those under the hood of your car. But what the hell are the men in white going to do when the grey jello in our heads starts misfiring? It's fucking scary, I'm telling you. I know, I know. I am thinking positive thoughts. They can do marvelous things with the head these days. Lots of people survive scary stuff. Gandalf is really stubborn, incredibly strong willed, and as I have said, very smart, so I'm counting on these qualities to help him through. I don't know what else to do cause I don't pray and I'm not a neurosurgeon and I don't even know any. So much for the six fucking degrees of separation. I could probably arrange a date with Viggo Mortensten if I really needed to, but can I conjure up a brilliant neurosurgeon? Can I, fuck. While Gandalf is being attended to, or not, by the NHS, I can do nothing but worry. Which seems pointless and selfish and certainly isn't going to help him at all, is it?
My own head is aching like no one's business. Two Feminax and one ibuprofen 800, a sweaty gym workout, and an extended hot bath have thus far failed to sort it out. It's so bad that I didn't even masturbate in the bath, which seems to be the only time I masturbate at all lately. The ache is either down to manifesting Gandalf's symptoms in my own body or the two-thirds of a bottle of Havana Club that I downed last night in an attempt to blot everything out. It seems like the less I drink, the harsher the hangovers get. I guess that's how it's supposed to work, huh?
Okay so now we're going to move on to more positive subjects. Like roast chicken. As I write, my flat is being filled with the sumptuous smells of a slowly roasting chicken. There is nothing quite like a roast chicken to make one feel homely and smug. Mine is roasting according to the great food goddess Nigella Lawson (I can never decide if I want her to be my mother or my lover. worrying?) at gas mark 6, for 20 minutes per 500g plus 30 minutes for luck. I have shoved half a lemon and about 7 cloves of garlic up it's bum. Or in it's chest cavity, more specifically. I recommend you stop reading this and go and duplicate my efforts immediately. We'll all feel much better afterwards, I assure you. One question though : why do the trussed up feet of my chicken keep coming undone and wiggling about in a most undignified fashion, as if the chicken spreading itself in a lewd pornographic pose for me? This never used to happen. Has the UK government bowed to some silly EU proclamation that dictates an inferior quality of string is now used to bind our chickens? Comments and suggestions gratefully received.
There are things that I should be doing and perhaps that is the best reason of all for this blog, to avoid them. Filing socks and underpants, sorting expenses, or dealing with how much money I owe the world are not activities that my own brain can seem to process, even at the best of times. Feeling guilty, hating myself, avoiding confronting my personal demons - that stuff I can do better than just about anyone.
This will get more interesting. I promise.