Hypatia Avenue

I’M NOT SAYING ANYTHING

Whatever happened last week to Blogger has happened, can’t be undone, seems to have resolved itself and since I was sound asleep for most of the situation (in fact most of the weekend), it will not be discussed here. However, one question needs to be asked: dude, why?

BTW, it wasn’t a relapse, it was just a peculiarly melodramatic combination of a) and b). And a quick trip to Garlic and Shots that evening for some medicinal vodkas and genial company seemed to kill off all threats of a return of the lurgie. Which was nice. I also managed to acquire info that allows me to get in touch with the Daleks should I need their assistance: just dial 020 8433 1244 - do it now! (Thanks Prandial for recommending them: I’m sure one day I’ll need to conquer some very level, even ground, in which case, a set of creaky, squawking dustbins on wobbly wheels with what looks like a case of robotic thalidomide arms will certainly come in handy.)

In other news, we have a new boiler. It almost cost us our lives, as myself, Flatmate A and Flatmate B were out for dinner in a distant but extremely beautiful part of London the night before the plumber was due and had to be put up by our lovely hosts in their really rather fabulous guest cabin at the end of the garden because the nearest train station was on fire and we couldn’t get home. That meant that in the morning, when the first ghastly streak of crisp autumn light came crashing in upon us and the train station was still having pyrotechnical problems, we had to jump out of our wine-induced stupor and sprint back across town, lurching through the Tube system seeking “alternative routes” like a small scale re-enactment of Night of the Living Dead (and yes, Big Brother, we kept the integrity of your favourite film as we were making the appropriate zombie noise and were the appropriate shade of green) to let the plumber in. We made it just in time, and now have a sparkling new boiler that has made our little flat really rather warm. ::sits back in bikini, running an ice cold g’n’t across forehead:: Phew.

Oh yeah, thank you (you know who you are) for the ::winks:: special stuff – it’s just fried chicken, right? And aren’t you having any yourself? ::mops up nosebleed::