Monday, I'm against it.

Woke up singing 'I'm just a sweet trasvestite, frooooom Transexual, Transylvaniaaaaaaa...'
Okay, that was as good as it got. Then I sat up.
Bleaugh.
Tongue stuck to roof of mouth--check
Head fuzzy - check.
Stomach dodgy- check
Wearing stripped Dublin golf t-shirt, inside out- check
Also wearing one sock (orange)- check.
One large smug looking cat- check.
Memories of singing- check
Memories- of 'sure I'll have another one, but then I've got to get home, I don't want to be out half the night...'-check.
Memories of crushed 'Spurs fans-tee hee-check.
Memory of eating battered sausage and chips on the way home, oooorr, filling slightly ill now.
Other memory of mountain of work this week- dammit-check.
So I'm up, I won't say I'm enjoying it, I won't say it is pretty-but I am up.

A question. Why would a sane person eat food from a cafe that looks like Centre for Disease Control wouldn't even go in there?

On a much brighter and breezier note, Barney is back! Yay.


NOOOO! Update, I have just-as in this very bloody second- realised I won't see the Arsenal smmoooosshh Barcelona( You hear that Maroon!) because I will be at Palau Sant Jordi in Barcelona at an il Divo concert! Shit, I'm fairly sure I would be lynched by crazed ladies if I brought a little radio in... and the bloody dress I'm wearing is so tight I can barely fit myelf into it let alone a radio. Shit. Shitty shit shit.