This has been the longest month ever. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It really does feel like one of those people you don’t know very well who comes home with a gang after the pub, doesn’t want to have tea, doesn’t want to watch a DVD, moans about being hungry and then asks if they can crash. They can’t. You don’t like them. You wish they’d correctly interpret your frostiness and go, but now that they’re here you have to resign yourself to the fact that you’re going to have to make them sandwiches. I don’t want to make sandwiches for January.

Yesterday was like a mini-January: it took it forever to get to 6pm. A pretty productive day, all told, it should have flown; instead it stretched like an exhibitionist yogi with its crotch in my face. Like a Bloody Mary without Worcestershire sauce. Or vodka. Or a glass.

The whole month has been like a terrible play that a mate’s in: you want to leave, but you’re compelled to stay and sit it out, minute by over-long, excruciating minute. Or put it this way, like a blog made up almost entirely of analogies.

Unlike January, however, I at least know when to stop.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 28th, 2010 at 8:38 am and is filed under Blog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.