Indolence and Requiem

Personally I blame She Who Must Be Pampered From Time To Time*. Saturday and Sunday were pretty much no-go zones where work was concerned. And no DIY was done either. Mostly it was sitting about watching telly, or playing with the cat. I did do a wee squidge of writing on the Saturday, sat in the Redgath (DI Insch's local pub), but it all came to an unceremonious end when a family with two squealing rug rats sat down next to me and started talking in loud voices about where they were going for their holidays. Poop-heads.

But other than that: nada. Instead we made a big thing of mulled wine, listened to the rain hammer against the conservatory roof, and watched a couple of episodes of GBH. Most enjoyable it was too. That's the strange thing about this writing malarkey: it's a seven days a week job, with no time off for good behaviour. But then again, you get to commute in your slippers and spend all day in your jammies. So it's a swings and roundabouts kind of thing.

Speaking of jammies, mine are dead. They are no more. Well, the sort of are, but not by much. The backside is hanging by a thread, exposing my exciting Spiderman underwear whenever I bend over. They've been falling apart for weeks now, but I've been able to hide the fact from She Who Must Patrol The Clothes To Make Sure Her Hubband Isn't A Scruff-Basket by only wearing them for work. Then she was ill last week and spotted their saucy peek-a-boo nature, so I was dragged to Tesco last night to pick up a replacement pair. *sigh* Alas poor jammies, I knew them well...

Of course, they've stopped selling proper men's Jammies (at least at my local one), so I was forced to purchase a strange long-sleeved T-shirt with thin grey jogging trousers. Not the most flattering -- I look like an overgrown, bearded baby. And to add insult to injury, the T-shirt part has the numbers '41' printed on it. I'm not 41! No matter what that trouser-biscuit from the Sunday Times says. Not even vaguely 41. Arrrrrgh!!!

Anyway, I've dug the decrepit, escape-flap, button-up, red tartan jammies out for one last outing before they're entrusted to the great big dressing gown in the sky. Goodbye Jammies, you'll be sorely missed.


* Not 'Pampered' as in someone who has been made to wear nappies -- after all, we're not Members of Parliament, who apparently pay good money for that sort of thing.

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