I am officially in pergatory. Holed up in a decidedly cosy 'nan flat' waiting for the nasty pasties at the Woolwich to decide our destiny. I think they draw out the decision for as long as possible with a view to creating theatrical suspense. To me, they're like suited power jesters. Like replicas of that Howard guy off the Halifax adverts. Like I-Robot with jazz hands and big red ink stamps. We only want a teeny little old mini-mortgage. Show me the money, I say.
That halfway place ain't all bad though. There's copious amounts of lemonade pumping from somewhere and I'm being sent a pity-package of feel good films from my pig poisoned, swine flu invaded friend, Charlie. The Maiden of Muswell Hill as I've taken to calling him in my mind.
Sadly though, both my mother and I have been outsmarted by a giant arachnid roaming around my (temporarily 'my') living room. A silent assassin. I know he's waiting to pounce and I cannot mellow the fuck out. It's like it's on me. It reminds me of that movie 'Mousehunt'. Two Goliaths - still no match for a David. I think I'm Nathan Lane. My mum is so Lee Evans.
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