No Buckets of Shit

A self-tapping screw, not a self-taping one.

My friend Ja-wé is turning 40 today. He said I needed to think ahead and worry less about the present. So I have decided to invest in property and not go out any more. 

Still writing a play and casting for an as yet un-named sitcom that I have written with Ben Lewis. 

Casting is strange. If only all actors knew how very random it is. My advice would be not to self-tape on an iPhone. And definitely think twice before involving a bucket of shit, a toy pony and a glue-gun.

I listen a lot to Sufjan Stevens new album and in the shower I have started to put Sam Smith or Alanis Morissette on to kick start me; ear-worms, the pair of them. I have a new sticky yoga mat; apparently it gets stickier the more you use it. I hope so because this morning I slipped like buggery and fell onto the parquet flooring, covering it in a damp patch of sweat before pulling myself together and assuming Warrior Two. There is a hum of pipes in my flat. Two weeks it's been there.

I love music. I can't imagine not having it. This world would be dead. That's my update. I wish I were a better blogger and had recipes or something. Or cats. Or I had made a rocket from Kiehl's Midnight Recovery Concentrate bottles and fired it at the moon, immediately smoothing out its craters and gullies, making it look 20 years younger. All I've got is a hum and an orthopaedic desk chair.