I am so, fucking, astonishingly BORED.
I'm on the sofa.
I have vodka.
Alan Carr is on telly.
And at the risk of disappointing my reader (Hi Mum), I'm actually not that miserable.
New Years Eve is upon me, in an hour and a half it will be 2012 and life will suddenly be shiny and bright.
Yes, okay. I'm not that drunk.
I suspect that life in an hour or so will be pretty much the same as now. I'll be poor. I'll have children. I will be a spectacularly unsuccessful author. The washing up will still not do itself. Dammit, the ironing fairies will still not visit me.
The only thing that I ask is that The Rapture doesn't happen at 12am.
It's not that I'm scared of death - being ripped from my mortal playground leaving just my rather grubby Burberry tracksuit bottoms (piss off - I got them when Burberry was still cool) and my horribly stained t-shirt (no excuse there) doesn't bother me. The liklyhood of (how the hell do you spell that? I told you I was a bit pissed) my immediate entrance into Heaven - is small. But then - Oh for crying out loud - perhaps I shouldn't have had that last vodka.
Anyway - I just paid my Virgin Media bill and if I have to go to hell now, I'll be really fucked off.
And I hoovered. Dammit.
Happy New Year. x