I often wonder where all my money goes.
And then – after sifting through my hundreds of comics to see which I can make a tidy 50p profit on – I get an email from Amazon telling me that the Woody Allen documentary I ordered has been dispatched to a house that I don’t live in any more…in York.
So I figured it out.
Half of the money goes on cleaning up my cock-ups and the other half goes on getting drunk to forget the awkwardness of introducing yourself to complete strangers as “that idiot who keeps sending his shit to your house”.
I really hope I didn’t leave anything unseemly in my room. I can picture it now:
“Hey, hope it’s all right to come by like this.”
“Ah, no problem. Which room was yours?”
“The one at the front. It’s great, right?”
“…Is there something wrong?”
“I really think it’d be best if you left now.”
“What? But I–”
“GET THE HELL OUT.”
These are the kinds of things that keep me awake at night.