It's been horribly quiet around here lately. Busy weekends and week nights and the tectonic plates shifting under my feet at work have all contributed but there's no real excuse.
However, I've been spurred into action by the obituary of dead dandy Sebastian Horsley, who it turns out owned the door I spotted a few months ago. Had I pushed it open I would have found a room filled with human skulls, a display case of antique syringes and a man old enough to know better dressed like the mad hatter and doing something terrible to someone terrible. A lucky escape - I am a very suggestible person, and could easily have ended up being sucked into his flâneur lifestyle. Which would have killed me within weeks but in the meantime livened this blog up no end ("Dull day. Polished tie pins, ate some opium, bummed by six Brazilians wearing horse masks, home in time for dinner (one exquisite peach) and James Corden's World Cup Live. Sebastian didn't wash up AGAIN").
I read poor doomed Seb's obit on the plane home from Northern Ireland, where I spent a long weekend with 11 chaps watching football, eating cheese and drinking Harp. The relentless sun and good humour even lured me into playing cricket, breaking out some killer bowling moves for the first time since school. The bails remained oblivious to my efforts.
We planned to celebrate our sporting efforts with a Saturday night out in Limavady. We expected the locals would be charmed by our cute little metropolitan ways. Then during an afternoon stroll three of our number were welcomed to the town by a car honking its horn and the orc-like driver screaming "OI! QUEERS!" out of the window. We took this as a sign that we were simply too beautiful for our own good and remained in our compound.
And today back to work with nothing but a sore bowling shoulder and sunburned legs left of the weekend.
However, I've been spurred into action by the obituary of dead dandy Sebastian Horsley, who it turns out owned the door I spotted a few months ago. Had I pushed it open I would have found a room filled with human skulls, a display case of antique syringes and a man old enough to know better dressed like the mad hatter and doing something terrible to someone terrible. A lucky escape - I am a very suggestible person, and could easily have ended up being sucked into his flâneur lifestyle. Which would have killed me within weeks but in the meantime livened this blog up no end ("Dull day. Polished tie pins, ate some opium, bummed by six Brazilians wearing horse masks, home in time for dinner (one exquisite peach) and James Corden's World Cup Live. Sebastian didn't wash up AGAIN").
I read poor doomed Seb's obit on the plane home from Northern Ireland, where I spent a long weekend with 11 chaps watching football, eating cheese and drinking Harp. The relentless sun and good humour even lured me into playing cricket, breaking out some killer bowling moves for the first time since school. The bails remained oblivious to my efforts.
We planned to celebrate our sporting efforts with a Saturday night out in Limavady. We expected the locals would be charmed by our cute little metropolitan ways. Then during an afternoon stroll three of our number were welcomed to the town by a car honking its horn and the orc-like driver screaming "OI! QUEERS!" out of the window. We took this as a sign that we were simply too beautiful for our own good and remained in our compound.
And today back to work with nothing but a sore bowling shoulder and sunburned legs left of the weekend.
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