4am.
4 freaking a freaking m.
Normally, I like the fact that my house is light … but at 4am, when the birds begin to twitter happily (oh what I wouldn’t give for a Whomping Willow), after I’ve had a late night of required reading of the repetitive, childish dross that is Max Frei (there, I said it – how many fracking times does an author need to tell me in the space of a 544 page book that (a) everyone in Echo drinks kamra, (b) Max spits poison and scares people, (c) people in Echo live into their hundreds and wear looxis and have several baths in their houses, (d) that Max sucks at Silent Speech, and (e) (which is in no way the last of the things wrong with this book) that Max’s magic pillow given to him by Magician Maba Kalox is a gateway to the chink between worlds through which Max can get cigarettes???) … then the brain started to clunk and stress about my situation at work, which will probably see me changing jobs in the new year … and the lack of jobs around at this point … and that sentence is very long. But you know what? I don’t care: I’m too grumpy and tired.
Well, let us say that birds and light were the least of my issues, but bore the brunt of my swearage this morning. So it was off for a walk at 5.45am – because I could only manage to ignore the prodding of the universe for 1hr 45 minutes – what is wrong with me? When I was a teenager, on the odd occasion I inadvertantly got out of bed before 11am, my father would raise his eyebrows and ask with concern, “What’s up, blossom? Wet the bed?”
GRUMBLE.
