I’m about to drive back to the city. I had other tentative plans tonight but I cancelled. I’m a flaker these days alright. Dotty the Flake.
I’m waiting for my phone to charge up to a decent level. I have a morbid fear of it dying while I’m driving. Also, I can’t bear the disconnect: my phone has kept me in the world these last few months. Sometimes I wish it had dumped me.
Olly Murs and Demi Lovato. Who cares?
In fact, X Factor, who cares full stop? Well question mark actually.
I don’t really want to go back to Dublin, I’m delaying. I want to stay with my family. My other uncle is here on a visit, the Marchioness’s dad, the oldest of the three siblings on My Lady’s side. He’s lived most of his larger-than-life life in England.
Everything’s amazing and humbling Demi yes, indeed.
Still don’t give a fuck.
So we wanted to spend the day with the Lord Viceroy, aforementioned visiting uncle. They’re all now slagging Louis Walsh in the living room. I don’t blame them. I saw him recently in my city village, paying for his parking. The smell of aftershave (or men’s fragrance as it seems to be more appropriately called now, maybe because the beard is king and none of the men shave anymore) from him: it was like walking into Brown Thomas the week before Christmas, knock you out.
Ben Hey Now? He should duet with Rodney Ah You.
I should go. I’m procrastinating.
I don’t want to go. I want to stay.
Incredible, you killed it, nailed it.
Nails in my fucking eardrums.