It was when the morbidly-obese man’s armpit started sweating on my shoulder, as the Armenian driver hurled the minibusload of LA entrants around the corners of downtown, that I realised my hands were aching fit to burst. ‘That would be from all the hand-wringing’ I thought, ‘which would be a natural lead into a flas…’…
What a way to spend a Saturday. My acrophobia agoraphobia caught up with me again this weekend, and I found it almost impossible to leave the house. I kind of reflect it when I dress, veering between completely black clothing and bright pink Hawaiian shirts twinned with green-grey combat shorts. The nearest I got to
Either I’m going paranoid (considering the unbelievable amount of stress I’m under, etc, etc) or my bloglines accounts begun reading itself… I think I’ll change all my passwords pronto.