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My wife woke me up in the night to say there was something beeping in the house and she was worried it might be a carbon monoxide alarm. She's right to be paranoid. We had incidents with this deadly invisible gas in our last house but luckily had an alarm in the kitchen (actually put there to monitor something else).
This early morning though the beeping was clearly the battery indicator for an alarm. We went to the kitchen, it sounded like it was the alarm in there and I said I'd sort it in the morning and we shut the doors and hoped we could get back to sleep.
In the morning I took down the heat alarm in the kitchen and discovered it had no battery. Furthermore the beep was coming from somewhere else. I realised this wasn't any use for a blog even,
because the exact same thing had happened in my office last month. I went through the same thought process. Catie thought it was the attachment on the ceiling that was beeping, but I knew from last time that this wasn't possible. I put my ear against it just in case. I then spent half an hour trying to work out where the hidden alarm was. I had two carbon monoxide alarms charging on the counter, but it wasn't them. I looked on top of cupboards, in the bin, even checked the alarm I'd taken off a few more times but every time it felt like it was coming from somewhere else.
Finally, just to ensure that I couldn't use this story as a blog, I looked behind the bread bin and found another carbon monoxide alarm that I'd put on top of the tiles there when we'd moved in and totally forgotten about. It was almost exactly the same story as last time. If you don't believe that the Universe is playing tricks on me then you're an idiot. I am the modern day Job. Why God? Why me?
I changed the batteries of the carbon monoxide alarm and it still fucking beeped so that little fucker went straight in the bin. What a horrible start to the day.
It picked up when I went to the Post Office and saw this bin. The people of Hitchin think of everything. The streets used to be coated with jism but now with this convenient depositing hole (I think you're just meant to shoot into it, not fuck it, but I guess either would work) you barely see any gametes anywhere. I hope more town councils will take on this initiative.
Personally I always carry a small supply of jizz bags with me and dispose of the mess at home, but not everyone is as responsible as me and what if you need a wank and you've left your bags at home?
It is an indication of how brain dead I am right now that I initially thought someone had taken the time to use a stencil to add this, before realising what had actually happened. If you're having trouble too then welcome to late middle-age.
Into London to record a podcast with the fabulous Poppy Hilstead who will in return be a guest on
RHLSTP on Monday at the Leicester Square Theatre. If today is anything to go it will be a classic episode as she's hilarious, indiscrete and happy to talk about some very troubling things. I suspect some of it will be unbroadcastable, so come and see it live. Also appearing Andy Zaltzman who is if anything, even filthier.
