It's been a while again. Blogpology. lol.

What I've realised with most blogs, (and by most blogs I mean the flower backgrounded, Christian family themed ones that serve predominantly to dribble mundane bullshit all over my laptop and surrounding desk area about their weekend in the garden) is that the more that happens in their day by day progression towards incontinence, the more they see fit to tell me all about it in their blogs.

I myself, see a reverse correlation in mine. I've done stuff, so I haven't had the same amount of time to dedicate to considering the really worthless issues that I generally comment on here.

I haven't really posted because I've been busy and unlike the 'Charlotte Family' from Alabama, me being busy doesn't mean I'm going to tell you all about my shit kids new found ability to eat raw potatoes. Mainly because as far as I see it, children are ultimately a bit (or entirely) shit; poorly functioning versions of ourselves for at least a sixth of a century who will ultimately, probably, be left with a radio-active lump of rock and sixteen fingers. But then I'm a cynic. And I don't have children. (Maybe it's wonderful). (But probably not).

What this means is that I have several issues to address and not enough motivation to address any of them at length.

The main one is that the puppet man has had a little trim. He's gone for a much shorter, neater variant of his classic style and I think it works well, not only has he had a shorter back and sides, but he's also gone for a neatened cut about the ear and a shave to match. Well done Mr. Perry. (Followers of my continued interest in the puppet man will know we share a surname).

Point two is also for the followers. A while ago, I remarked on my neighbour. The old boy who had me assist him in climbing into his house as he'd forgotten the keys. Well this week I forgot mine, so I went round to see him. He looked at me blankly while I explained what I thought would be a funny role reversal situation in which we would laugh, contrary to the linguistic barriers and bond as fellow residents of Grosvenor road.

Fuck did we.

His only words were in response to me saying, 'How are you?' and they were 'I'm alive'. He did show me through the house and into my garden where he stood and watched as I spent fifteen minutes squeezing through my kitchen window, a window that is by all accounts, too small for me to easily pass through. Anyway I put my hand in raw chicken, my foot in yoghurt and promptly fell into the sink. I turned to wave thanks, but the old man had gone.

Anyway, I'm going on a spontaneous trip into Europe tomorrow (possibly France, Austria or Italy so I'm not sure how often I will update, but bear with it, eventually I will write something worth reading.)

It seems prudent also to suggest you have a good Easter in case I don't post before then.