Waking up at 7AM means travelling far and wide to find a shower -- and this morning I stumbled across an amazing luxury SECRET bathroom that NOBODY ON OUR FLOOR IS SUPPOSED TO KNOW ABOUT.
Though the proper reason why I'm writing a blog post in the morning is because if I post at the end of the day like I usually do, I'll be out of the city, so it'll no longer be a Day. It'll just be... a day. I need to recover from the massive hole in my savings. I do have a potential maybe semi-confirmed freelance scriptwriting job coming up, but that'll earn me enough to rent a flat in London for about 35 minutes. So I don't know when I'll get another Day. But it'll come! The Day will come!
I don't know what I'm going to do 'til then... except, I do know what I'm going to do in the near future. Any friend of mine knows that I go through nettling Phases of people who do comedy/acting/writing/directing/music-ing, prompting me to obsessively research their entire back catalogue (depending on the level of Phase). Someone on Never Mind the Buzzcocks made me laugh yesterday, and now the person in question is a Phase. Meaning that I am going to have to watch the worst comedy show of the year. I will not name it. Your eyes will bleed.
Last month, my brother and I watched it for about five minutes in stunned silence as we tried to decipher whether or not they were really trying to be funny or if it was a Brent-esque satire. Even if it had been a satire, it still would've been shit. I'm going to watch all of it. All six episodes. All three hours.
As I write this, though, I'm still in the city where they live and work and play, so I have to get out of here first.
Goodbye! Lug a suitcase that I can't lift two inches off the ground down three flight of stairs, then wheel along Euston Road, then King's Cross, then Edinburgh, then home, and then death.