I went to York today, helped make a short film, rewrote a script and got a whole bunch of old Alien & Predator comics, along with part of my collection I’d left at a friend’s place.
So why does any accomplishment I feel immediately evaporate the minute I see a beautiful girl on the train home who I’ll never pluck up the courage to talk to? Elvis Costello didn’t help much and even if, through some miraculous happenstance we did engage in conversation, it would be quickly cut short when leaving the station due to the appearance of my grandmother, who was picking me up in her car.
Because my little arms were too loaded with comics to walk home. They’ll keep me warm on these cold, er, summer nights.
And people wonder why I started strangling kittens.