soho boho

I had a rather odd dream last night in which someone caught me writing this at work. Obviously there are occasions when people do creep to this corner of the office without me noticing and stand behind me as I blatantly spurn my working day, but being a dream the colleague in question was a brooding bald 9-foot-tall woman with what appeared to be an erection. I turned in my chair to glare furiously at this monstrosity, itself not the paradigm of sanguinity, which then mouthed silent abuse at me. I was just on the brink of throwing a wobbly when the creature leant forward and deftly switched off my machine with the tumescent bulge in its dress.

Then I woke up with a thumping headache.

I have a hangover, it’s not too bad but I wish it wasn’t here. I’ve not had one in the office for a while and it’s a stark reminder of my continuing need to abstain –still it was worth it. After a frankly revolting day in the office I arrived back home where upon I dropped my trusty beard trimmer, breaking the fucker in twain, before getting on the tube and allowing myself to be absorbed in my book, which is so absorbing I was paying scant attention to where I was going and missed my fucking stop, which took and additional 20 minutes to undo. By the time I arrived at the boozer in Soho Bill, Harry, Jack and Red where already there, joining them were Bill’s agent, Thalia, his assistant, Verity and her friend Penny. All in all a jolly good bunch.

Drinks began to appear out of nowhere and conversations spontaneously erupted with my neighbours, somehow I wound up enthusiastically ranting about Princess Diana, that dreadful harridan who was about to get married to an arms dealer, but mercifully my new friends remained in situation. The evening passed most congenially, every time I prepared to leave another beer appeared under my nose, I finally left with everyone else and we wandered as a merry throng through a picture perfect London to Charring Cross where we said our farewells.

The tube journey back passed very quickly, I was piss pregnant for the entire journey (oh, ‘Piss Pregnant’ got published in Viz’s Profanisaurus yesterday, as first used here. I’ve been credited of course) and wound up having to tinkle on the street by the tube like some sort of football hooligan before arriving back home and indulging in a large glass of red excellence with my unputdownable book until 1.30am, foolishly.

I think another night off the pop is in order.

This is bloody acers…