I'm not voting, thought I'd say that. All the banter is funny enough and the posters, but at the end of the day it's all politics, and I think I actually care more about the specific shade of cream my wall is painted: In fact, I actually do because I took a chunk of it off and I need to repaint it or I lose my security deposit. Anyway, choosing a prime minister is like choosing the best way to be executed, or the best skin affliction to contract, or the best Lil Wayne album; whatever you choose, it's awful anyway. So although I may say I support the Lib Dems, I actually don't give a shit and he's not getting my vote.
In other news, the ankle I fell on got X-rayed, and I was told I'd ripped all of the tendons in my ankle. Except for my Achilles, I'd only pulled that. So now I'm limping found like Captain Blackbeard after the nurse decided she needed to ensure I knew my tendons were fucked by doing the nursing equivalent of gagging me and punching me in the ankle. Now I can't walk again, after going to A&E. I walked to A&E and limped back. Bonjour, Irony, ca va?
Anyway, I went from Ashton to Ormskirk again, 4 hours of train service based molestation involving "on time" meaning 30 minutes late, and Liverpool Lime Street meaning Stairway to Mount Olympus. Once home I'd forgotten that my room floor was not a clear space to hobble across, rather there were pan-lid landmines on the floor for me to hurt my foot on and clothes strewn so much a fel-runner would pass on the opportunity.
Also, I left my hair-straigteners in Ashton. Whilst fully aware that saying that sounds incredibly feminine, I'm going to stand by it, because, well... fuck you. Only three weeks left in Ormskirk and I don't want it to end, but I do need to get all this work out of the way. Work to do.
Will post more when I've done work.
JW
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