This week has been a bit of a write off (pun intended). Getting up in the morning to do my daily slog has been an impossible task.
The alarm goes off at 630am and it wakes me up (which is an unusual occurrence to say the least - it usually means I'm really tired). But I don't get up. I roll over, turning my back, ignoring the incessant beeping. Or I reach over and the turn the damn thing off.
Half an hour later, The Jingo's moby starts dancing its little dance to its little tune and I want to wring its little neck. Jingo checks her messages and rolls over, back to sleep. I roll over too.
By eight, I've checked my watch enough times to realise its time to get up and I slowly rise from my bed. At this stage, it's quite obvious that there will be no writing this morning; in fact, I better get my arse into gear or I'll miss work!
All because I did a Lionel.
By the time I struggle through the working day, fighting to keep my eyes open as I slave away in front of a life draining spreadsheet, I am dead to the world. As I walk through my front door, it all hits me, and I'm good for nothing more than EA Cricket and NYPD Blue.
All because I did a Lionel in Norfolk last weekend.
Last Saturday night: over a half a litre of Jim Beam in my guts, its affects swimming in my head; a murder mystery solved and a Jenga set toppled; a full list of Ipod tunes delved through and played until the cows came home (and a bunch of angry cows they were too - "Shouldn't you be in bed?! Why are you playing S Club 7? Are you mad?!!!), all topped off with a very early morning clean up (around a very still Pablo - I think he was playing Statues) and three pints of water.
Starting time: 730pm. Finishing time: 830am.
Yep, I did a Lionel.