I'm exhausted from the weekend and I didn't even do anything. I watched a film, that was about it. Ate a large pizza on the sabbath, that mighta done it. I was a wreck in work, so tired I had to type one handed in relays alternating between my left and right, in order that one hand be delivering constant massage to my brittle limbs. I can feel cold nipping into my joints and a concept of a wheezing cough has just been pushed through to the development stage by the higher level guys who work in the complaints cortex of my brain.

It's my birthday next week and it's reached the stage where the numbers are getting too big. 10 is good. 10 was a great number, I remember when I turned 10 and running the number through my mind ONE.............ZERO.........ONNNEE......ZEERRROOOO. It felt big, important, resonated around and hummed in the air like when you heard it on Seasame Street. 10!

Twenty Seven. 27. Twenty Seven sounds terrible. Sounds disappointing. Sounds like the number of pounds I have in the bank. Sounds like the name of a shitty ad agency with a bad logo.

Here, I'll put it in a sentence for you and you can decide whether it sounds good or not:

The massacre in the jungle was revolting, all twenty seven bodies lay boiling in the sun, their guts fizzing and hissing with pus, their blood turning the dry earth into an undulating bog surrounded by a dense wall of foetid insects feasting on the twenty seven corpses.

See? I used it twice there for effect, just in case you missed it the first time.

I cheered myself up today by doing a little mess around with patterns and colours though so I'm not really all doom and gloom, I'm only saying all this shit so that the following picture radiates positivity.