Today I will be spending watching John Wayne films, aimlessly hitting F5 on the DiS window and giggling to myself in a drug-addled stupor.
Yesterday I woke up early. The intention was to amongst other things, get down to Fopp early enough to get a couple of wristbands for that free show there was. However, I had some work to do first. So I did it and went down there. No wristbands.
I wasn't too cut up, because I wasn't the one who wanted to see Blonde Redhead anyway, but whaddyagonnado?
I was in the area, so I thought I'd locate an M&S and go and buy some new duds - I got some vouchers for Christmas and I could use a couple more shirts and ties.
However, it was raining and I couldn't be arsed. So I want to the next thing on the list: Go to Waltham Forest where my parents live and pick up some mail.
From Oxford Circus to Walthamstow central is a trip that should take maximum 30 minutes.
I get to the station: Victoria Line is closed. I take the central line to Liverpool St - you can get an overland train from there to Walthamstow.
That train is down too, due to bank holiday engineering horseshit. But the board tells me there is a replacement bus service from platform 10.
I ask a customer services woman standing at the gate - which platform is the bus to Walthamstow? She says platform 10.
I go through the gate to platform ten. There's a bunch of other staff waiting on the platform itself. I ask again - is this the buss to Walthamstow? They say yeah.
A bus arrives, I walk straight past the guy who assured me it was going to Walthamsow. It is now 4 o' clock.
I sit down.
I doze off.
I wake up 20 minutes later on a motorway going past a sign saying "You Are Now Entering Essex" - a nightmarish scenario even when you intend to be in that county.
The bus to Walthamstow was supposed to stop at all the regular stops. This bus didn't stop until it got to Colchester.
No point crying over spilt milk, I think. I calmly ask whether the bus driver is now going back to London. He says no, but points me toward a supervisor. I ask the supervisor whether the train is going to London. He says no, because it's raining and the driver can't be fucked, or something.
To get to London, I'll have to get a replacement bus to someplace called Witham, and thence on to London.
I wait half an hour for that bus, and half an hour getting to Witham. It's a smooth enough journey and eventually I get back to London Liverpool St.
They ask me for my ticket.
Maybe it's because I'd achieved an almost zen state of calm, or because Liverpool St was swarming with pigs, but I didn't headbutt the person asking for my ticket, but patiently explained my story, with my usual blend of immense warmth and placidity.
She wiped the spit off her face and went to get her manager who led me back to platform 10. I'm like "Are you SURE this bus goes to Walthamstow?" He assured me he was, but for good measure I checked whether every other person on the bus including the driver was going the same way.
They were, and I reach my parents' place 40 minutes later (after the bus driver took a wrong turn at Tottenham Hale which nearly started an onboard insurrection), cold, hungry and snot dripping down my face.
My mum laughs in my face for nearly 20 minutes.
I get my mail and blag my sister into driving me to Leytonstone where I can get the central line back to Bethnal Green - where yours truly currently lives.
I get out the car and I'm strolling into the ticket area when there's a click in my back.
Now I've had a slight backache for a couple of days, but nothing to raise a ruckus about. This click however, signifies the end of my ability to walk.
I hobble onto the tube, hobble all the way home - stopping by the newsagent to load up on Nurofen, and now (after waking up at six to leave the worst sick note ever conceived on my boss' answering machine) I'm here, telling you this story. And that's all that I can do, given that now I can't really walk.
I am telling you this story because I need to ask a favour: I am begging you guys, as friends, do not post anything remotely funny today. If I laugh, I might actually die.