“sweetheart i've brought you a coffee"

"hate it"

"ill just leave it here"

"wah, i'm not getting up!!"

"darling..?"

"stupid...stupid furby!”


Turtle has just emailed me this as a direct transcript of my mood this morning. Oh dear........

It is simply not cricket to call your new husband a “stupid furby” no matter how hungover you are.

A quick pint and lunch in Wetherspoons yesterday turned into just a teeny weeny bit of a binge. I got carried away by the fact that so many lovely friends were there (Boo & Joe, Richie, Kat, Amanda and Ruban) and consumed pint after pint as we gossiped away like starved fishwives. Somewhere amongst the lagery fug, Boo, Richie and I set up a production company, Moop productions.

The weekend has involved equal amounts of art and beer.

The ceramics installation at the V&A on Friday was great. Less great was the “art installation” I woke up to on Saturday morning.

Toddling downstairs to get myself a glass of orange juice, pondering on what an excellent night we’d had at the Roundhouse, I noticed through squinting eyes that the kitchen seemed a bit odd. Someone had opened the doors of the all the cupboards, the oven, the microwave, the washing machine, taken the lid of every bottle, jar and container and there were roses and carnations protruding from the grill and hanging off the light fittings.

A tell tale bottle of Jim Beam was empty on the table along with an envelope marked “Urgent! Press cuttings: Ruban Yogarajah”
There were two strange men asleep in Carla’s room (she was not there I should add) and rose petals scattered all over the floor.

I thought, “I’ll just go back to bed for a bit and maybe it’ll go away. Along with my headache.”

The House of Rats does seem to be becoming more odd.

I like it.