This morning I was coughing up chunks of green stuff. It's all the walking about drunk in the cold, Wino Jo says, he says he's an expert in this stuff. It seems his being back on the drink was a temporary thing as he's not been drunk since that night.
There were streaks of red in the coughed stuff and I'm not sure if it's blood or colouring from the pink champaigne. Either way none of the others in the house seemed too bothered and I just struggled out of bed and made my way to work via the off-licence and custom house square. I'd hoped that some pink champaigne would give me strength to get through the day but I've been sitting shivering in the disabled bogs since I came in.
No fucking pancakes. Book Boy says it's just a commercial holiday and that the marketting ploy that starts every year after Valentines Day is sickening. He was near in tears when he said it but I think that's because he doesn't have a sweetheart or anyone to make him pancakes either.
