I’m in foul form today.

I think it started with the Vindaloo I had last night.

Normally I would have my curry towards the end of the week, but for some reason, last week I didn’t and decided to make up for it last night.  It was delicious!!  Melt in the mouth chunks of lamb, ripping hot sauce, and a pile of mushrooms and other stuff that I robbed off Herself.  I rounded it off with a few glasses of whiskey to cool the tongue.

For as long as I can remember, I have had this peculiar necessity to fart when I get into bed.  It never fails.  As soon as I pull the quilt over myself, I just have to let rip.  Normally, that’s it – I can then go to sleep, but last night was different.  The flatulence was mighty, loud and unending.  Every time I managed to drift off to sleep, there would be another loud explosion that would wake me up again.  I didn’t get much sleep.

I woke early this morning with a fucking headache.  Not only had I headache, but I had a gut-ache as well.  It’s years since my ulcer played up [Doc insists on calling it my ulster, but what would he know about it?] and it was not a welcome return.

I got dressed and made my breakfast of a mug of tea and a fill of the pipe.  Surely the day could only get better?

How wrong I was.

I started getting cold calls.

Did they know I was in foul form, or were they just waiting for Monday?  I had a succession of calls and frankly, I got quite tired of roaring “fuck off” into the phone.  So now, not only was I in pain, but I was in foul mood too.

Then my laptop packed up.  The fucking mouse just stopped working so I threatened it, and I threatened it mightily.  I even scared myself with my threats, but it did the trick, and started to work again.  The mood got worse.

I had ordered groceries to be delivered at two, but the fuckers arrived at twelve, when I wasn’t ready and I half strained my back trying to clear some sacks of coal off the kitchen table to make room for the delivery.  Now there were three major parts of me racked with pain.

I was packing the groceries and came to the final tin of beans.  I went to slide it onto the top shelf, but it wouldn’t slide.  Something small was blocking the way, so I slid my hand up to feel what it was.

It was a mousetrap.

If my fingers were a mouse, they would be dead now.  As it is, I hardly notice the throbbing as it just adds to the general pain.

So my day is now a misery.

My advice to you all is very simple.

Never, ever eat a Vindaloo on a Sunday.