I am reborn. Mostly.
Sorry for not replying to your messages. I mean, that’s not a Covid thing but I did feel extra guilty through a haze of brain-fog and fever. I do read every message though and I think about replying. And I think you’ll find- it’s the thought that counts.
Talking to Noella tomorrow. He’s been a right old grumpy-guts on text. I asked if he needed a visit from the one-man afterparty. No reply. We’ll find out what’s put a wasp in his nappy soon.
Nico, Britain’s most romantic Incel, has been ever-present in my fevered state. He’s now a late-blooming, big beefy business bastard. Barking new promo ideas and concepts at me down a headset from the back of various Ubers. He’s drawn a face on his tit and it’s now ‘Angie, his PA’. He treats her like shit.
Hazy- let’s get that outdoorsy little fuck-puppet on here soon. I miss him and that hilarious accent he persists with. Being in love is no excuse for not drowning in mud at Hoo Fort.
Solo? It’s been a while. Who fancies a solo ramble across countryside and topics? Or if I’ve got long-Covid then maybe a laying-down one while the district nurse washes my bits?
This took all my energy to write. Cough. I’m off to google cardiomyopathy again.
X