I have been having a bad week to say the least. Traffic wardens, the weather of the gloriously dismal United Kingdom, and money (and therein the lack of). Unhappy face
Who knows why it has been such a bad week, I blame all the Pagan people who “celebrated the solstice” at Stonehenge. I’m not convinced. They weren’t celebrating the longest day of the year, they were casting some sort of Pagan sorcery upon the unsuspecting and already miserable inhabitants of England, especially me *cries and shakes fist erratically in Pagan direction*
The Problem: The great British “Summer”
The Solution: I would ideally love to move to New York/Hong Kong/L.A/anywhere that is not here. But alas, financial complications have arisen, and I am stuck here. So, I have devised a fort. Yes readers, a fort. It has a heating/tanning lamp (for the day-dreaming aspect of my day) four-wall landscape posters of New York city (day-dreaming side again) and party rings (in my imagination, they don’t contain calories, just sugar and happiness, in reality, they make me fat and I’m past caring). I will forever become a hermit in my fort, and forget about the problem scientists hypothesis is called “reality”.
The Problem: Traffic Wardens/Attendants/Monsters spawned from Hades loins
The Solution: Simple really. All you need is a catapult, lighter fluid, matches, salt and blunt, rusty kitchen knives. Oh, and a spade. Dig a massive hole in the ground, some hundred yards away, maybe somewhere with an infestation of flesh eating, Botswana imported, red ants. Then, when the bane-of-all-drivers-existence rolls around the corner on his over-inflated ego, knock it out with the spade. Throw the lighter fluid on the Beast, place the rusty knives blade up in the ant-filled pit, light the Beast, and launch away to your hearts content. When sufficiently sure they have been bitten by the ants, throw salt on them, and make a cup of tea. You could even make it into a competition with your driving friends, with a special prize for the winner. The prize: no parking tickets again, ever. YAY!
The Problem: Lack of finances
The Solution: Honestly, if I had a solution to this, I wouldn’t be moaning about it, but I do not. I am not a banker and therefore do not have the capabilities to rob people of their hard earner money, and I do not own a gun, so I cannot take Michael Mcintyre’s advice, enter the Dragons Den whilst explaining that my business proposition is, “Put that money, in this sack, or I will shoot.” All I can hope is that by hibernating in above mentioned fort, that the world ends whilst I’m drooling on New York, and party rings become the new Pound Sterling. Chances of that happening, nil. Chances of obesity due to party rings, pretty certain.
Farewell,
