The Morning After The Night Before The Rest Of My Life...

The new orientation of the bed gives me an uneasy nights sleep, not to mention the alcohol content from the leaving cocktails, which certainly were leaving their mark. I check the time, 7:26, “O.K.” I think to myself, “time to get up, it’s time to go”.
Today is the day I leave for London. Again. Last time was somewhat eventful. This time will be equally as eventful but this time I’m setting up home with my fiancée.

The morning flies by with boxes and bags stacked high, too high, then being re-stacked in an attempt not to kill myself before I’ve even left. Then boxes and bags being carried downstairs and dropped with such aplomb that a suitcase full of vogue* would be proud of. Needless to say that the suitcase itself is an event, ergo backing up my theory that this time round would be eventful. After moving my worldly possessions from what was my bedroom to what was my living room, I need a bath, and drugs. Lots of drugs.

Before Man-with-a-van turns up, I rush out to buy cat supplies for her new living arrangements. By ‘supplies’ I mean Evian as this is one snobby cat. And by ‘new living arrangements’ I mean with Director Boy and me.

I return home from Angry Fence’s** to find HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED, sorry J.K., glaring at me with eye’s only he can give. With a face as red as skin rash and veins the size of hose pipe’s popping out of most surface area’s, HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED bellows like Brian Blessed in panto and stamps his foot. All I want to give him is E5 cream to calm the redness. And I, as usual when this fiend appears, am the cause of every possible problem on the planet, from him losing his keys, cracks in ceilings, cracks in tiles- behind sinks that are boxed in so are naturally my fault, to the starving in Africa!*** Today I am determined not to be stressed out, also the drugs are kicking in and I’m somewhat sedate, so I laugh at him to piss him off further. Just as I hear the thermometer burst, Man-with-a-van turns up.

This might be a good point to mention that all the advice given by mother’s and police everywhere has gone out of the window, as a man I’ve never met is about to transport me in a white Transit van on a journey that inevitably takes 6 hours. I can hear the NSPCC gathering their petitions and pickets.

Tea is made, HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED leaves, the van is loaded and off we go!!

Conversation is surprisingly relaxed and easy in the front of the van-with-a-man, mostly revolving around theatre and singing two part harmonies accapella from the ‘Wicked” soundtrack.

Six hours later we arrive in the capital to be alerted that security levels have risen.

Now who told the Home Office about my arrival??





*The suitcase in question is a very large silver, plastic one, that contains only two years supply of vogue, and ironically all my clothes are in black bags.

**A.K.A. Cross Gates Shopping Centre.

***Not really, although it would be if he actually cared about real issues