Another weekend is drawing, as they do, to a close. Haven't really done a lot to be honest. It's been one of those can't be bothered weekends: Can't be bothered to get out of bed until afternoon dawns; can't be bothered to shower or shave. I've walked a few hundred yards for life's essentials; tins of soup with crackers, carbonated water, swigged from the bottle, the release of fluids and to change the CD or to plug in the Freeview receiver for 'Harry Hill's TV Burp'.
Seems I'm not the only one who's been lazy this weekend. My cat lies sprawled, her back against the books on my shelf, paws crossed. I remember a Robert Smith quote in a music magazine from the eighties when he talks about cats having it good because all they do is eat, sleep fuck and make weird noises. There has to be something in that. I'm much the same at the moment. Apart from the fucking.
Nice to know the one thing that divides you from you and a feline is sex, or lack thereof.
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