Tabatha has just rocked up, in a state she describes herself as 'shit-faced and interesting', grinning inanely. As I'm watching a film about the late Arther 'Killer' Kane, she is helping herself to my 'special' fried rice and seaweed. I've had to persuade her that cutlery is actually a good idea, but it hasn't made any difference to the amount that is being deposited in her lap, my lap and on the setee. She keeps grinning at me, telling me that she doesn't really need cutlery and that there is only one tool she's interested in. God she looks sexy, with green bits all over her teeth and cold rice and bits of prawn cracker all over her 'balcon'.
She's now lecturing me for not eating my greens, and getting through a stack of Coke. And she's demanding a cup of tea. Right now. For fuck's sake Krusty, go and put the kettle on, now, if you know what's good for you. No, she says, I can't do it, I'm busy eating your dinner and shitting up the living room having just teetered in from a party and having been drinking for the last four and half hours. In heels that make me six foot. Which isn't bad as I'm actually four foot three and the same weight as Gareth Chilcott (wasn't he a hooker?).
I don't really want to leave the computer unguarded lest she fuck around with the music. Socrates asked me if there was anything about her that I really don't like and we would have to 'resolve'. Yes, she likes Steps. Can you fucking believe it? Not in this house, chum.
Guess what, I'm off to not get laid.