fuckeye I am not in Spain anymore. When I left Spain, there was but one baby cloud floating tinily across an ocean of blue, the sun burning down with joy and grace. I returned to a typically sodden London, its sky one giant bruise, spittle flecking from its bitter chin. The electricity had gone in our flat, and the freezer and its contents had defrosted, including a large chunk of tuna and a bit of salmon.

Its better now. I suppose, after a day, I have gotten used to it all again. Humans are great like that. Radio 4 is on, coffee is brewing, I am fucking freezing, and getting about my day. Ola hey!

Last night I dreamt that I managed to upset some hardcore Catholics, by standing in the prayer area in the middle of a nightclub pointing out to some girls that they were not evil, and neither was I. A fat lad in the company of Mike Skinner threw a glass at my head, so I returned the favour, causing Skinner to demand I buy him a drink. I was later stabbed, slowly, in a twisting motion, by a man in a trenchcoat who told my my head had become too big, and I needed bringing back down to earth.

Acapellas coming later on, anyway. Fare thee well.