Fun start to a bank holiday weekend: stuffing toilet paper in your ears at 20 past five in the morning because your broken fucking house alarm’s been going off for two hours. Though if we’re being picky, I guess the START of the weekend was being woken up at 3.20 and running downstairs in the nip wielding a golf club (ladies). Not that I sleep naked (ladies), I just reckon I look more intimidating that way. Hence also the Xena-like warbling. Also it’s an 8 iron, if anyone’s wondering.
What’s interesting about barricading your eardrums in such a manner while buried under three (three!) blaring bells is the interference patterns it produces. Interesting in the sense that you start to take them for granted, and then you realise you’re taking them for granted and you start hearing them again, and you start hearing how weird they are, and you cock your head and then ohh there we go, the pattern changes, and you blink a lot and get confused and then lie down and forget who you are. Until hours later a man comes and rips the guts out of your alarm system while you hover anxiously behind him, and then suddenly it’s completely silent except for the weird dying-penguin sound of the ever-more-broken bell outside, and then you start laughing and weeping and everyone feels a little bit weird about the decisions that have led them to this point.
Anyway! A fun way to continue a bank holiday weekend, based on the above, might be to not hear much and fall asleep a lot. I tried that – I really did! – but it’s hard to sustain when you’re off at a music festival eating top-hole minty peas and riding on chairoplanes. Two things that would, I suspect, solve three-to-five eighths of the world’s ills were they instituted in any kind of serious way at a transnational policy level, which let’s be honest, don’t hold your breath with the kind of leadership we’re dealing with these days. We live and dream though, do we not. Do we not. Ha ha. Yeaaaah.