Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Cold Tits

I tell you, it was almost impossible to get out of bed this morning.

But at least it gave me a unique perspective into the latter half of the life of Christopher Reeve.

Anyway, the reason the sheets were like Velcro was not for the obvious reason - you know, that recurring dream with Stryker and Jack from Lost deciding to eschew the island's lovely women and create a Utopia Of Bumming all by themselves - but because it's so damn... weathery out there. Not just one type either - we're getting snow, hail, rain, sunshine, blustery gales in the morning then calm afternoons. Then monsoons in the evening. That poor wooden couple lingering around the doorways of the weather house are spinning around like an epileptic in a disco.

Now, we stolid British can weather (ha!) anything. It's a pastime, in fact. We'd have nothing to talk about if it weren't for the constant changeability of the climate - and we've mastered that half-hearted grimace when looking out of the window as to whatever we're about to face in order to pop to the shops and pick up our Bunty. But this is getting silly. Rain, smog, snow, hail - what's next? Frogs? Are we currently in the middle of a very half-hearted apocalypse? And how does one dress when the only semi-constant is it's as cold as a witch's tit out there?

Frankly, if it doesn't calm down, I fear the elements are going to get RSI.
 

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