Yesterday I had a drink in London with an old friend and then spent three hours wrestling with Southern Rail in an attempt to beat their determined ineptness.
With a bag of half eaten chicken under my arm, a few politely administered home truths at the great unskilled under my belt, and hatred for humankind in my heart, I finally arrived home much later than I planned.
But, home to a boyfriend who offered me a Bombay Sapphire gin on arrival and who then told me to take the bath he had run for me. I opened the bathroom door to find the room covered in candles and the bath full of bubbles.
The man knows his stuff.
So, today the subject of my neuroses is my neuroses. How can I worry when I have it so good? Does this mean I really can’t justify my facebook-stalking habit? What's wrong with me? When did I get so mental? Perhaps I should just hang up my mad hat and accept that I’m pretty lucky.
Chances of falling of the Sane Wagon by tomorrow afternoon: High.
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