I mean like really f**king smell. I need a new pair of shoes. I may have mentioned this. Last night's entertainment was the Barrow equivalent of fine cognac and cigars over a game of backgammon at a gentleman's abode last night; 8 cans of lager, a chicken and mushroom pizza, Pro Evo 5 and a few joints sprinkled on top for good measure.

The 'girlfriend' arrives at 1pm until 3pm for the last time before she goes on holiday. I have a feeling it would be ill-timed to finish with her. I have a mind to go to the shop, buy some credit and text her saying she shouldn't come round because my parents have had a row/my dog died/ the freezer's on the blink/ I had an out of body experience. But screw it, I'll just whack on Carlito's Way and pay more attention to Pacino than her. What a ladykiller I am My mother, who's contribution is naturally null and void because of her title, suggests that the relationship may be suffering because we live an hour away from each other. Yes, that and I want to have sex with all the other females, mummy.

I suppose I'll have to have a bath before she comes then. I realise that should be a prerequisite of any day, bathing/washing/general hygiene, but I I enjoy spending my Sundays chilling out pretending I don't have to spend my Sunday night serving a bunch of old people and drunken twats. Not that I would be doing anything better than earning money, or indeed that I mind it when I'm there, but still, the principle of the whole 'work' thing.

I hate Sundays.