Between sieving eyelashes from rice pudding, learning to juggle with soft oranges and doing a little bit of pitiful weeping into literary criticism in Nero, I find I have very little time. Ocassionally I meet Dylan Moran’s gaze of cutting disdain shining unto me from my pinboard. I am developing new and drastic procrastination techniques – for example I have begun taking daily stock of the vegetable situation in the fridge; examine the black bits of my bananas, peel icey carrots from the back wall, and count my Sainsbury’s Basics onions, which tend to fall apart when I tentatively touch their wrinkled skins. I ring J, who tells me she has slept with her flat mate, that he has a girlfriend who is also her flatmate, that she has become a social outcast overnight, and that she is running out of money. I duly make noises of suprise and empathetic outrage. Also, I have had a fight with the woman behind the bar. (My empty capuccino cup made the table look messy.) My director of studies writes ’sentences!’ pointedly on my essay, by which I think he means they are not very good.
See Dara O’Briain. Irish stand up. Dylan Moran reborn!
I think that’s the exact opposite of what she wanted to hear.
You never know.