/ My heart is crammed in my cranium / And he still knows how to pound / This wrinkle in time /I can't give it no credit / I thought about my space / And I really got me down. (Frank Black, Headache).
I'm trying (and likely failing) to hold back a particularly bilious and trite wave of self-analysis. I had five hours sleep between Weds 7 am and Fri 3 pm, culminating in the frankly bizarre decision to play tennis at 11 am on Fri morning. Obviously that was ghastly and it then took two hours to drive from Islington back to Battersea. I was not in a happy mood and the downbeat music which I carry around in my CD changer doesn't exactly help. Feeling a little psychotic? Well, how about some nice, soothing Radiohead? No? Mozart's Requiem? Bach's Goldberg Variations - ideal funeral music, you know? Nick Drake? By the time I finally got home I didn't know whether I should burst into tears or burst into Asda wielding our two biggest knives and a sawn-off cricket bat (I have just such an item, so watch yourself).
I've missed a party and a wedding this weekend to waste away watching the Aussies dick the Windies. There isn't even much in for us, thanks to me wanking away 4k on a mis-click. The detectives on the Betfair forum are aghast that the Windies could be matched at 1.31 - for what it's worth and in my defence the whole bet was matched at an average 6.6. Woohoo. Or maybe not. As long as there is a result we can forget about it.
And right now South London sounds like a warzone. I need sleep as I have an 18 hour day beginning at midnight on Saturday but the fireworks in Battersea Park half a mile are deafening. They echo off the tower blocks on the other side of Falcon Road. My ex was kind enough to inform me that she was going along with a group of mates, one of whom was her blind date. I miss her at the moment because of my isolation lifestyle and could have done without hearing that. Now the retort of each firework cuts a little bit deeper and I feel more than just sleep-deprived.
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