I tell you what, football should be on more often. My levels of productivity have increased so much ever since the boys switched on the television in the lounge this afternoon and I became allergic to man chants. I’ve made several photo board decorations for my room, mapped out a holiday and watched the grass grow.
Ed’s put a bet on for me because romance is not yet dead. Apparently if Crystal Palace win I get £225 and it’s amazing how once getting out your overdraft is within reach you experience a significant boost in your passion for sport. However, being keen on getting my hands on some dosh and actually sitting down to watch a match are obviously two very different things.
So whilst they are settled on the sofa with bottles of
beer testosterone I’m thinking about pretty much all the other things in life. Like…
No matter how hard it tries, yoghurt will never masquerade as a real dessert.
Do we think anyone has named their child Kale yet?
How many times do you have to stir marshmallows around a mug of hot chocolate before it counts as cardio?
The holes in crumpets are extremely perverse.
Isn’t it funny how Ed went to Dubai with work last week and I went to Co-op.
Supposing, just supposing, I win the bet…STOP IT, YOU RECKLESS SHE-WITCH.
Goodness me, cystitis is SO shit.
I need to start eating more grown-up food. No more pre-teen diet of Babybels and Frubes. Time for some edamame beans.
Can there be a summer version of peppermint tea?
Think it’s time I got a dog.
Do you think my boobs are cursed?
I wonder what Penelope Cruz is doing right now…
You get the gist. It’s a miracle I’ve managed to get round to writing this post – I’ve been distinctly dreadful at writing recently because I keep getting distracted with adulting. Things like growing my own strawberry plant, checking my moles and inviting all my friends over to play rounders, pulling a muscle in my chest and waking up the next day convinced I’m having a heart attack.
So today, win or no win, I’m grateful for football, for kickstarting my creativity again. Even if it’s meant I’ve sat at a table, with a bowl full of stuffed dates from Dubai, eaten about twelve – in what I’m presuming is my own instinctive if slightly skewed interpretation of being a lad – and now think I may never digest again.
Happy Saturday y’all – much love. X