7556/20485
If I had thought that getting four nights on my own would be a holiday of sleep and self-abuse I was very wrong. I had a terrible night's sleep and woke up even earlier than yesterday and having to look after the needs of the pets alone turns out to be almost as demanding as looking after the kids.
Wolfie needs three walks a day and the cats are surprisingly demanding. Catie usually feeds them, though I enjoy doing the litter tray, though they now do their business in the garden most of the time - if you're interested (though they go in the borders and bury it, unlike Smithers our last cat, so there will be no repeat of the poo snowman incident).
Despite being tired I decided to do Park Run, but that meant walking Wolfie first. Having plodded round Stevenage Park in one of my worst times ever (but better than the last time I tried, where I gave up at the halfway point), I got home in time to watch a bit of the World Cup, put together a weird, but high point scoring lunch (I ended the day on 76, though could have been much higher, but decided to see the effect of a non-alcoholic beer and a Solero - the effect was a drop of 12 points, but still more than 75 so that's a win and 88 was ridiculous), and then walked the dog again.
I had decided to head into London to see Al Murray and co perform "The Crown Jewels" and figured I'd have enough time to do that and get back home in time to walk the dog again. I had slightly clouded the issue by both the early walks being shorter than usual, but I was fairly confident that Wolfie had done enough ablusions to avoid another Warming Up about faeces.
I was pleased with myself for going out and for timing things well enough that I could leave the house at 12.45pm and be at the theatre by 2.15pm. I'd even had to negotiate a road closed by a police incident in Welwyn Garden City on my way to get the train.
The play is a bit of knockabout fun, a bit like a grown up pantomime in places, with the most successful bits being where the comedians involved are allowed to ad-lib and have audience interraction, which of course Al Murray is the king of, though turns out he's a very adept proper actor too. The cast are all very good, though a few of them got surprisingly little to do, but they looked like they were having fun (though with a professional eye, one wonders how much of the corpsing and errors were scripted or have become so, so they might all secretly hate each other).
It's not groundbreaking and nor is it meant to be, but the audience very much enjoyed it and it's unusual to go to the theatre for something that will actually be enjoyable and silly and have real jokes. Though with writing the Spitting Image stage show as well as doing some of the voices in that, Al does seem to becoming the king of the West End, even when he isn't being a king.
I had hoped to catch up with him afterwards, before his evening performance (for a while I'd been mildly envious of my contemporaries for getting to do a play - or at least nostalgic for the fun I'd had at University putting together productions, but I wasn't sure I'd be up for the unrelenting nature of doing 8 shows a week for months. Ultimately I found myself sticking with the positivity of yesterday and being delighted that people I knew of old were doing so well), but the queue at the stage door was long and I checked train times and realised that if I didn't get the next one I'd be leaving Wolfie unwalked for much too long (there was a big gap with no train at all) so I had to dash.
I might as well have stayed because when I got home I found Wolfie had managed to squirt diarrhoea over the living room floor (the room without a carpet, though she'd managed to get half of it on the rug). This was the kind of nervous shit she does if she feels abandoned or depressed (like the ones she did the very first night we had her.
I knew the risks I was taking.
After walking her in the pissing rain, feeding her, feeding the cats, feeding myself and forgetting about it for a while, I eventually cleaned things up. It's not quite been the bachelor weekend that I'd be anticipating. If that guy thought I was sad for replying to him on a Friday night, imagine what he'd have made of my Saturday night.
Joke's on him though. I had a Solero.
