Unlike Poppy (the newly jobless) and Danny (just plain skiving), I had to haul myself into work this morning. No mean feat after a night curled up on Poppy’s spine-deforming couch, and waking up with my face glued with drool to several bits of crumpled paper detailing Poppy’s lunatic plans for world domination. Thank heavens for my being so vain that I can’t hurry past a car window without obsessing over my reflection. Otherwise I’d have gotten all the way into the office before realising I had a bizarre-looking scribble of a giraffe printed in ink on my cheek. (I’m glamour personified, n’est-ce pas?)

I was meant to be accompanying a friend to see the Cribs tonight at the King’s College Student Union, but after spending hours last night playing some lethal drinking game that Danny initiated, I’m going to have to bail. And frankly I think they’re fucking wank anyway, so I’m grateful for the excuse (but Danny, don’t go thinking this means you’re forgiven!). I hate boring faux-Libertines mediocre indie. The Libertines were the most hideous assault on the ears to start with, why does everyone still put so much credence in imitating them? Plus they all look like they could do with a high-power hosing down, and a hairbrush. Moody musicians with spots and sulky expressions just don't do it for me. I was only going to go to keep my friend company: he’s one of those people I always end up cancelling on and then feel guilty about for ages. Which is what’s going to happen this evening by the looks of things. After last night’s emotional trauma of watching Lion King (accompanied by a soundtrack of Poppy and Ben’s sniffles and sobbing), I’m far too worn out.

Flickr image from ShanRoseSlav's photostream