Or, more accurately, Sunday, fucking Sunday. Pah. Who needs ’em? Got a sprained wrist which keeps tricking me into thinking it’s better then trying to kill me. Got a blister on top of a blister, which is every bit as painful as it sounds. Got a fractured toe which refuses to heal, despite me being really nice to it, buying it chocolate and everything. All of these have conspired to enforce a week off running, weights and Muay Thai (i.e. all the things I currently live for) which is just superb.
On top of that I had to pump up my bike’s back tyre today and the entire valve came off. Just came off. Never mind, there’s a bike shop just round the corner from the flat. Or at least there was until now, must have closed down mid-week.
Anyway now I’m back in Portobello, sitting in the Flat Of Painful Memories, awaiting the usual stream of zero viewers. Recession-tastic. To top it all the ex decided to pop in unannounced seeing as the PMQ (Painful Memory Quotient) wasn’t quite high enough.
Sundays suck balls. At least this one does. Thank god for band practice in a few hours, need an aggression release and I need it now…