Friday, 1st February 2019.
It has had a little snow. Judging by the roads most people have used it as the worst excuse in the world not to go to work. I didn’t think of it. I just got in the car and drove.
The day is slowly moving along. No real dramas. I checked on the boy. The excitement of yesterday has passed but he is a little sore. He only seems to be interested in getting his hair cut.
I’m sure there is a girl involved somewhere……..
Ooooo. Controversial. A little disharmony amongst the engineers.
It’s really dragging though. It never drags when I’m going home to do nothing.
I have lots to do tonight, and it’s all fun.
Waiting for the weekend to start.
All collections/deliveries made. It’s Friday night. I have a little change in my pocket. Good times. I’ve had to come home quickly before going to Carter’s.
My work shoes make my toe’s cold so I had to get into some Adidas. I save my showering for Carter’s as she had the best shower in the world.
It’s always hard to find that “weekend” song, so as usual, we revert to what is right.
Always, so right.
This is the only view I’ve been waiting to see:
Let debauchment commence.
The good shit.
Saturday, 2nd February 2019.
After the usual, we awoke and ordered McDonalds breakfast delivery. Then I fell asleep again until 12.30. Got up, dropped cable delivery at work that I had delivered to Carter’s this morning. Took Louis into town. Came home. Got told off for buying new work boots.
It’s not a good mixture. My dad in one of his “never spend money, money is for accumulating and holding until you die” moods and me, still wired and biting back with, “money is for spending. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow”.
I could sense it might turn bad so retreated upstairs.
“The killer awoke before dawn.
And put his new work boots on.
He took a face from the ancient gallery,
And walked on down the hall………..”
You know the rest.
Louis stayed in. We watched TV.
When I say watched.
The telly is on, but I force stories of my ridiculous life Upon him.
Using them as life lessons for questions he asks, and, of course, self flattery.
Portraying myself as a,
Hunter Thompson/Motorcycle Boy/misunderstood genius……………………..
Mickey Rourke – The Motorcycle boy
All of a sudden, I feel like Charles Manson.
The questions he asks.
Explaining the “27” club.
Monday, 4th February 2019.
There was no Sunday. The realisation that I’m too old came quickly. My liver feels like it wants to escape my body.