I am once again becoming worryingly obsessed with new breed zombies.

I am often convinced that tomorrow will be Dawn of the Dead and lie in bed plotting strategies for defence against these evil rage-filled beasts. I have not been this bad since 2004 when we lived in the mansion and I used to check every door and window before going to sleep at night in case of attack.

On Saturday night I made Turtle watch the Dawn of the Dead remake with me and then made him lock the bedroom door “just in case.”

His gentle non-questioning acceptance of this unreasonable & delusional behaviour bodes well for our marriage as it is unlikely to diminish over the years. It is likely to increase, in fact - helped along by excessive consumption of cheap whisky & factory farmed red meat. mmmmm.

So then.. I take back any complaints of a humdrum existence from last week.

Conversation between my boss and I this morning:

Her - “You know that meeting we’re having tomorrow?”

Me - “Yes”

Her - “Let’s have it in Maastricht and visit the European Art Fair too. Can you look into flights to Brussels? I think we’ll have to get a taxi from Belgium to the Netherlands. Can you sort it out and let me know costings.”

What the fuck is going on? That’s what you get for complaining about office life, evidently.

The weekend was fun but hideous and included the following –

Learning of two new Mighty Boosh songs. “Isolation” and “Love Games” – particularly fine ditties.

Helsy, Boo and I dressing up as showgirls and biting each other repeatedly to very loud New Order. (God we’re predictable)

Staying in bed most of Saturday and Sunday. Mmmmm.

Circus japes, wilted tinsel and poor man’s burlesque

A new acquaintance with a penchant for falling backwards into tables full of drinks and making printed t-shirts as love gifts.

Blagging fags off the local Sinatra tribute act at Bethnal Green working men’s club.

Grinding in a reggae club full of white wankers with an aeroplane out the back.

Randomly bumping into one of my ex-stewards (who is not a wanker) in the reggae club.

A very unenjoyable Eastenders style family showdown in a pub on Commercial Street on Sunday night.

Curling in hysterics up on the kitchen floor at 4am with a very stoned Rueben half wearing one of my pink negligees whilst Helen shouts “Put your arm through the hole Rueben” until he falls off his chair, crippled by laughter and fear.

Cooking rat meals in honour of big Al and his new Brazilian missus and trying not to swear or be too raucous, drunk or hungover. Failed.

Snuggling of baby Billy.

Gossiping with Jules.

Hiccups and pig like snorts at bed time.

Jamesons.

Tom Yung Kam Bam Gang Slam Tram soup.

Life’s alright actually.

I dreamt I was on Pyramid Lake last night, it was so vivid and lovely. Splish splashing about with Burners. It was a timely distraction and reminder as what I see around me daily is becoming frighteningly normal. So tempted to fuck it all off.

Fuck office life and grey clouds and packaged sandwiches and grumpy commuters living in a box and dogshit everywhere and career progression and target objectives and professional development and mobile phones and please mind the gap or please don’t push me in the gap in your haste to board the train and expectations and pigeons and smoke free pubs and Islington wankers and GAP and Yo Sushi and ten till six five days a week and celebrity wankfest and bruschetta with olive oil & balsamic vinegar and stationary from Muji and wheat free diets and ecologically sound clothing yah and sipping expensive wine and last tube home and Green & Black chocolate and organic meat ordered online and oystercards.

Ahem.

Hmmmm…

A big head cold again. Fair knocked me off my feet on Saturday so I had to spend the entirety of it in Turtle’s bed. Not such a bad thing. Incapacitation was nothing to do with the whisky consumed with relish on Friday. No.

Friday was an excellent evening and worth every drop of Saturday’s sweat.

Hels, Turtle and I boarded the vile National Express at 6pm - Cardiff bound for fun and frolics. Hels and I immediately made friends with some Somalian chavs in the back seat whilst Turtle bonded with a sweet geek next to him and the 3 & a half hour journey slipped by with much mirth.

The chavs declined our whisky (good muslim boys), but accepted a game of “kill fuck or marry”, told us where Somalia was on the world map, proclaimed loudly we were “quality”, invited us to a Somalian wedding, said my engagement ring was “pow”, said that Turtle looked like James Blunt who they quite liked and regaled us with stories of how their girlfriends had roasted their cat and posted the ear back to them.

Hels was particularly taken with Ty Reese, who was apparently an RnB singer although he refused to sing to us. They swapped numbers but I reckon he was only twelve so that’s a no go.

When we got to the club in Cardiff, Lorny was already falling all over the place and I was beyond speech – slurring meaninglessly when Turtle introduced me to his friends as his fiancé. Great.

Within a couple of hours we were all covered in bruises and the most hideously drunk people in the place not to mention the oldest. It was like a government advert regarding the dangers of binge drinking.

The rest of the weekend was fairly civilised….

Hels, Turtle and I spent a lot of Saturday in bed together as is traditional for bride, groom and best man.

Then Hels got stoned and hid her face in Turtle’s wardrobe.

We visited Pepe, the Mexican Welshman. Not successful due to a foul shark steak.

Had a fairly early night.

Consumed enchiladas and burritos for breakfast.

Went to see festival rich’s new baby (cute & chubby, good for snuggling) in Little Highton.

Then another bus journey home during which I spent most of it asleep on Helsy’s bosom making crooning noises until my ex phoned her mobile and woke me up and I had to tell him off.

Back to London, grey windswept and rude and another early night for the sake of my simuses….

Yada Yada.