I’m about to get tipped into the mixed bag, but for the moment I don’t mind because the clowns with cleavers won’t be there with me.

Got my breathe machines on the knock-wobblers and my glue goo in the inbetween. The half minds are away at the moment, starving fans of the mickey mouse club. Punchy paunches, nose a-run-runs down the face gutter for a sneer kiss. Hip to the nose-candy who’s-who and whatnot.  Ch-ch-changes!

I spent this weekend either glazed in front of the tv or semi awake watching films on my computer from the bed.

Happy, as long as I had a duvet and a roll of nose-wipe to hand, I muttered “mm ‘kay” to just about any film Ideal Brown suggested.

He was picking through the remains of George’s Pirate Bay harvest; most of what was left were either very heavy or very stupid.

And I’ve given up on trying to get him to watch the Darjeeling Limited or Planet Terror again. Indeed he’s sat through both of those at least 5 times and I’m almost able to recite the dialogue.

In the build up to the Oscars I all but barred award winners from my TV. Watching the unfortunate struggle over and over against the misery life chucks at them just leaves me wanting to carve up my wrists. Best case scenario is most of the characters die. Worst and most common, is that some poor man or woman is left empty, confused and almost broken down, but insists on living out their days alone or bed-ridden or in jail or abused or…you get the picture.

And I just can’t handle that sort of thing right now.

Of course there are exceptions and I thank Clint Eastwood and Angelina Jolie for that.

Superbad forced me to let my comedy guard down, but having sat through Step Brothers on Saturday, its right back up, reinforced with armed turrets.

The best thing I almost watched on Saturday and then again on Sunday was Bronson. On both attempts I fell asleep within 15 minutes -  because I was sick, not bored.
I’m going to kick the cold and try again soon. They say three times lucky.

But they also say 7 Pounds was good. I’m not sure I believe that and don’t want to invest 2 hours of my life in trying to find out.

I’m going to be a bridesmaid on Friday.

Although touched to be asked, I’ve never thought I’d be very good at the job.

I’m a very awkward person.

This is aggravated by my year-round hayfever. Nose-running and eye-watering.
I’m never around children. My limited experience of them in grocery shops leads me to conclude that most of them are at risk of being hit by my elbows or trolley. Fortunately I won’t have a  trolley at the wedding.

I’ve got my dress and my shoes and the whole of Friday morning to fuck up my own hair. Luckily I’ll be going to a house containing no less than 4 other women who are good at styling. Thank god.

So, even if I sneeze, knock out a kid, get snot on my dress, or in my hair, trip, fall, slip or swear, I’ll still have the perfect accessory:

A sty.

I was working on it all last night, to the extent that a rather unnatural looking bruise has blossomed beneath my eye socket. The pale flesh there is now lilac and bloated, as if someone invited a slug to take a nap on the inside of my face.

To the onlooker it says “I hit my boyfriend in the knuckles with me eye”

I hope the bride likes it.