After Tuesday's adventures with crack cocaine (all now sold to just a dozen Asba boys in Frome and Corsley) I opted for a complete change and went and stayed with Trin. Despite her hovering between life and death with an NSI (Non-specific illness) I forced her to update my blogs with squiggly bits and pictures, cook me numerous meals and run a bath. This idyll of domesticity was only disturbed once, at 2am, when a dishevelled and clearly drugged-up Ponsonby of Pink Floyd hammered on the door asking my whereabouts. Trin fobbed the hirsute uncool neanderthal with some story about my being up at Clifton bungeeing off the suspension bridge, and he shot off up there in his gold-plated Bentley, muttering.
I look forward to reading the local papers tomorrow to see what became of him.
1 comment:
bastard....I'm even worse since you went. Now I think I really do have TB.
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