Tempus Fuckit

Although in theory there are still almost three weeks to go, one of those is going to be in Paris.  I have 11 actual days left in the UK, of which five are working days.  I have five days to get everything done.  A part of me is distantly panicking and screaming rather like a Munch painting in another room.  The rest of me has her feet up with a cup of tea. And as the furniture departs, so my methods of living become more improvised. 

My feet are actually up on the pc tower, with the keyboad on my lap.  The monitor is balanced on a chair, and my knee is a rather effective mouse-mat.  The rest of the room looks like a vomited jumble-sale. But in my personal space, order remains.

Except it's anything but ordered.  I am passing from hug to hug.  The small lake of bodily fluid in my head still hasn't broken but it will soon.  Today I nearly wept in the Hard Rock Café.  Mind you, that could have been the booze.  I went to Wimbledon to meet the girls and was given a glass of Hungarian spirits on arrival.  I don't know what it was but I think it doubles as descaler.  This was chased down with a glass of wine, so by 1pm I was what is known as arseholed.  We were not supposed to go to the Hard Rock Café but it's a long story involving a power surge.

Tomorrow it's S and K by Nelson Mandela's head on the South Bank and I fear the seal will be broken. I have 12 handypacks of Kleenex.