Saturday, 25 April 2009

TERMINAL

Went to the doctor in the week, and he told me I've only got about another 65 years to live. I don't know how to feel, right now... He says there's nothing they can do about it. Other than give me a load of drugs for it. And an eyepatch...

I've talked to Grill and when he finished laughing, we worked out some arrangements. I've asked to be buried. Or cremated. One of the two would be good... Grill's option of tying me to a plane and crashing it into Jude Law's face didn't quite make the cut, but at least he's making an effort. It's better than the mocking dance he normally performs whenever I try to talk about anything even remotely of importance.

There's also the issue of telling Mum. Preceeded by the issue of finding Mum. And Dad. To save time, I've decided to have myself adopted by someone nice, and break them the bad news. Bill Cosby, I thought. Or Judith Chalmers.

So a dark few days recently, but I still... I found a Caramac the other day! Hope will out.

Incidentally, I don't know if you caught that thing on the news the other day, about the man who stole that dog's face. Well... Guess who went to school with him! That's right! My boss! Small world, eh?

Anyway – I'm going into hospital next week to have an extra knuckle implanted, just in case one of the others goes balls-up, so I probably won't be up for typing much. However I'm on the Stephen Fry thing now, what's it called?...Twatter or summat. So you can follow me there if you too are a Twat (as I believe they're called)! Especially if you're trying to sell me stuff. I love that!

Stay warm,

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