WHATEVER WAS I DRINKING* OF? (or THE DEMISE OF THE ANTIPARTY)

the antiparty is dead, long live the sleep-over!

it seemed like such a good idea at the time, but after several litres of cider sometimes things do. until i wake up.
the nearby telephone kiosk has more roomification than my flat and i know that those invitees of more sensitive and discerning natures than senor omally would not all like to be lumped into my bachelor pad and have to sleep on the hard and unforgiving floor.

my flat is rubbish. i have two chairs and not even a table. i have no spare room or bed. when that most excellent fellow, the merman, comes to stay again he will know what to expect (e.d.a. 25th) and he will bring his bed and folding chair with him like he did before. what i’m trying to say is that geocaching/simong chums can make use of the unyielding floor, even the execrable hutters is welcome. but only one or two at a time, eh? sorry for my enswiggified over-enthusiasm.

i went along the towpath today, kicking ducks out my way and spitting in joggers’ faces. i wanted to see the boats at pyrford marina. what a shame that i failed to win the lottery at the weekend; the mooring fees at pyrford basin are 48 quids a year plus VAT. ‘what’s that?’ i seem to hear you say, ’surely that seems reasonable, you skinflint?’
very reasonable indeed if your boat is one foot long because you pay by the foot. a decent-sized narrowboat is at least 55′ and a full-size one is 70′. all of a sudden the reasonableness evaporates and a sour taste is left in the mouth. these are not residential moorings either, they are just parking fees. so bollocks to rich people.

after a restorative swig at ‘the anchor’ we went in search of my new cache-hiding location which will be opposite john donnes utterly groovy summerhouse at pyrford place and found a belter. this time i shall go to kingston to buy an ammo-box to put it in to save sniffy comments from haters of black plastic bin liners like what i put my last one in.

then back to byfleet village to buy araldite to mendify trouty’s shopping trolley. we saw a handsome beetle and wabbits and crows and fed ducks. unfortunately i did not feed the ducks to myself. and then to tesco for enfagandswiggification purchases. and then home.

on BBC7 i heard a ‘goon show’ that was first broadcast in 1954 (fifty bloody years ago) and the first ever radio version episode of dad’s army. i laughed. i laughed a lot.

grub stats: a massive fry-up featuring an all-star cast of messrs bacon and egg, sossidge, black pud, mushrooms, grilled garlic and toms and a special guest appearance from toast.
sounds stats: kevin coyne, sigur ros, walter trout.
swig stats: a pint at lunchtime and i’m struggling manfully with the plastic-bottled stuff.

if you need to kip here for any particular reason, do get in touch. the door is always open for nice people. after a hard day’s geocachery, what could be more soothing than me tootling a gentle lullaby for you on the saxomastraw.

and let the thought of that, dear reader, sprinkle the sandman’s magic dust into your eyes. goodnight.

* in this instance, the word ‘drinking’ is a juicy and appropriate conjunction of the words ‘dreaming’ and ‘thinking’.