Hallo weenie

How did we import this shit from the States? No actually don't answer that one. I only asked it because I'm slightly drunk, having disposed of my last bottle of Wyndham Estates Bin 555 while carving pumpkins with a friend's depressed-looking American girlfriend. They don't love each other, but they pretend they do. Good enough reason for her to be depressed. Anyway, Sachiko took care of the pumpkin-carving, while I focused more on the wine.

I must be looking less damaged than I was: when I got on the 249 outside Streatham station, no one offered me their seat. Could be that with just one crutch I didn't look too bad, or more likely the people on the bus were scum. The scum analysis would seem to fit the Streatham stereotype. This place isn't quite as vile as West Norwood, where the streets are paved with chicken bones, but it runs it pretty close. And talking of scum, I've spent today with Natasha at her painful best. Coarse, crude and thick, I used to think her, but she's got a lot more so while I've been festering in hospital. Today she was off the "Huh-mong" but onto the "I'm such a Nigerian" bullshit trip. She was trying the "I'm South African" nonsense too, and Pete the voluneer mentioned he'd heard about singer Lebo Mathosa dying in a car crash, and how sad it was. "Oo? Nah, never 'eard of 'er." said Miss African Solidarity. Alison conjured up an obituary onscreen, and she laboured her way through it, aloud (she can't read without moving her lips), claimed to have "heard of" Brenda Fassie before turning her attention to the photo of Lebo Mathosa. "She's bling," was as profound as she could get. What a sorry, cultureless cunt.