5.42 My Arse

It's two o'clock in the sodding morning, sleep is a distant fantasy and everyone EVERYONE but me is deep in slumber until the minute I put my foot on the first of our flight of stairs and then all hell breaks loose.

I'm the one awake - I have to deal . O.K.

But to be then told that, when I get a spare moment inbetween this to write a rubbish story about my Mam potentially having traces of my semen on her hand, I'm doing all this at the down-time chill-out hour of HALF PAST FUCKING THREE IN THE AFTERNOON OR WHENEVER THE FUCK THEY AND I MEAN THEY RECKON IT ACTUALLY IS WITH THEIR ONLY ONE DOLLAR A YEAR FUCKING SALARY OH REALLY BECAUSE WHEN YOU HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO ACTUALLY FUCKING BUY AFRICA THEN A LITTLE THING LIKE THE TIME IS PROBABLY SOMETHING YOU CAN SNAP UP LATER.

It's either two in the morning and I've several more requests for my company before I am late for work, or it really is five in the afternoon, our hemisphere is affected by some sort of catastrophy so acute it has not only blocked out the sun, but has also knocked PAUL O' GRADY off our screens.

At this late (or early hour) I really don't know what to think.