Life is Gravy

Oooh, blogging again. What does this mean? Well, first of all time. Back from Las Vegas and slowly recovering from the 18 hour days, the ten hour flight and a new feeling of being constantly cold, which I've never had before. I can't be bothered going on about Las Vegas. Maybe some other time. For now, it's good to be back.

Still weird in Streatham though. When I left for America it was with the noise of partying neighbours in the back garden. When I got back, it was the noise of neighbours throwing up in the back garden. I was away for three weeks but oh, how things change.

When I got home from Tooting tonight I'd only just made it back into my room before I heard frantic, but very gentle knocking on the front door. At least I thought it was the front door. But there was no-one standing there. And that's probably worse than if a hulking great big 'man and axe' silouhette had been there. Nope, nothing. Just this frantic knocking. The knock you'd expect either a killer to use when trying to persuade a survivor to let him back in for one last chance to finish the job. Or a body, not quite dead, trying to attract the attention of a passer by from inside a sealed coffin. Or maybe someone locked out of the house, and watching a rabid pit bull taking it's time walking up to you with an appetite and a taste for blood and jeans. Cheery stuff. Enough to put you off your soya lump and Yorkshire pudding.

I love that stuff. Leftovers from Sunday. I even made gravy, and all at 1.30am. There's something about re-heated food. Must be the chance to relive happy memories - like putting good stuff in your head on hold and then reviving it a few days later - just heated up and more firm. Plus, a woman cooking for you and wanting to feed you is always good. It's nice that they worry.