My desk is covered with the severed heads of Pokemon. I have to catch them all, you see. When the doorbell rang, I find myself at the door with secateurs in one hand and the head of a small plastic popular cartoon character in the other. It was Olga from British Gas, suggesting that I might want to switch power suppliers. I was pleased, because I'd been meaning to do this for a while; and she accepted "I'm an artist" without any nervousness as an excuse for the secateurs and the way I was absentmindely shaving bits off the plastic as I worked through the form with her. That's today's chores; tomorrow I shop for terrifying glue.
Wait, wrong. I've not put the rubbish out yet. Ha ha ha. And how long is it since I've done a weekly strip, come to that?
There was also this unnerving click, click, click, when I came downstairs. Shit, I thought, glancing nervously at the ceiling, Death Watch Beatles. Turned out it was actually the Pet Shop Boys, I'd left them spinning when Damian alerted me to soup and the needle was wearing a groove in a place it shouldn't. I've really got to be more careful with my toys.
The bag of mixed bones I bought contained only right hands. Isn't that entirely wrong for Halloween table sprinkles?