So I've come home tonight, washed a few pots, made dinner, eaten it and then sat on my backside and done bugger-all as shite telly washed over me from a half-ignored corner. Seriously, no matter what anyone might say - there is no excuse whatsoever for the festival of arseholes that is Celebrity Big Brother.
As posted yesterday, this is something of a recurring motif for me ("...I've a nasty, sneaky tendency to sit on my backside and fester instead of doing useful bits and pieces about the house...") - and I'm going to get up and do something. Now.
I'll get a couple of shirts ironed or something.
[EDIT - fifteen minutes later]
See, that's done now. Two crisply-ironed blue shirts on hangers on the back of the door, I've got the telly on Newsnight and I'm having a late cuppa before turning in. And I feel a lot better, too; surely some sort of moral there if I were so inclined to think about it. But I'm not. I'm off to bed. Night-night...
[EDIT - fifteen minutes later]
See, that's done now. Two crisply-ironed blue shirts on hangers on the back of the door, I've got the telly on Newsnight and I'm having a late cuppa before turning in. And I feel a lot better, too; surely some sort of moral there if I were so inclined to think about it. But I'm not. I'm off to bed. Night-night...
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