Home late Wednesday evening to find that, despite the 24-hour place
selling nothing but Stork, the undersides of every plate in the drainer
were inexplicably covered with butter. On the bright side, this landed
on my shoulder while I was out drinking by Blackfriars Bridge:
As having large bugs landing on you goes - given that this wasn't going to bite, sting, scuttle or be sick on me - it was pleasantly like meeting a cat.
Walking into work Thursday morning, I pass a half naked man slowly crossing a busy Borough High Street by shuffling along on his bum like a class of infants asked to move forward to make room for another row in assembly. "There's losing yourself in the moment blah blah," my friend Hannah once observed, "and then there's just being off your nut on crack."
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