Voices In My Head

Not so long ago, one cold grey wet miserable English day (unusual that), the following conversation took place inside my head.

I’m bored. Me too. Lets do something crazy. Like what? You know, like craaaazy. But where do you start looking for a Kurt Darren CD in London? I said crazy, not retarded you doos. Oh. I feel like flying home. Lying on Camps Bay beach for two weeks. What about Clifton? Do I look like a herpes encrusted stick insect with a penchant for organic lettuce leaves and a nose full of cocaine. Nah, Herschel girls have suntans. Precisely. Ok, so how we gonna get there? We’ll fly. Oh. How will we afford it? Hic – sorry, that cider’s given me hiccups. Did we have a cider? Aren’t ciders for Chavs? Who are you? Is it time to go to school? 5 more minutes. Please?

** CRACK**

(1 X Poes Clap aaaaaand we’re back in the game.)

We'll get a job immediately after we leave The Trunchbull, work for the two week placement, leave straight from the granny's place to Heathrow, jump on a plane (coz we have a return ticket booked for that day already) and head home. Easy. Listen, The Agency couldn't organise a c*ck-up in a strip club, let alone get us a two week booking with surgical precision on the exact dates we need. There's no margin for error. It's exactly 15 days between leaving The Trunchbull and our booked date. It can't be done. F*ck you. I hate you when you're sober.