After dinner, two minutes ago.

Mike: (wondering whether to do the dishes, watch telly, listen to the rest of the Seth Lakeman album, read Guyana Gal‘s archives, or carry on with Part 4 of the wedding series) What shall I do? What shall I do?

K: Shit in your hands, and clap them to.

Mike: […..]

K: [gummy grin]

Mike: Where did that come from?

K: Dunno. Just made it up. Worrying, isn’t it?

OK, carry on with Part 4 it is, then. Anything to get away from Little Miss Potty Mouth downstairs, perched on the sofa, pleased as f**king Punch. He’s probably still saying it to himself right now. Probably hugging himself as he does so.

Look, I do the f**king jokes in this relationship. It’s one of the pitifully few life skills I have to offer.

Yes, this is displacement activity.

Yes, more wedding stories. I am well aware of your need.

Anna’s particularly funny today. Go and read her. Slowly. Several times.


Ooh! If I don’t do the dishes right now, they might congeal!

In, um, the dishwasher.


Goodness, is it only an hour and a half till Lost? Well, scarcely worth making a start, then.

Oh, very well. Wedding stories. Sigh. Must they rip the words out of my very soul?

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