Anyhoo (yes "anyway" was already taken).

Were I to bother with those post ending current mood smiley things it would currently be set to the appropriate expression for FFS, which I imagine is a round yellow blob with two pixels two-thirds of the way up set to a brightness level high enough to char the phosphor off your screens* leaving two permanently dud patches. I am not best pleased.

* For those with newer-fangled, higher-faluting technology may I suggest you concoct a way to gain greater understanding of the processes within it by acquainting it with your inner workings.

It started out reasonably well. Tube to My-My (in celebration of the anniversary of any pretext the Jubilee line is closed for the duration of festivities; it's in the name). Thence through bitter streets (I've given up all pretence of claiming it's merely bracing and that there's no such thing as bad weather only poor clothing [of course the sodding Norwegians would say that; the alternative generates a chain of thought that would result in doing as the lemmings do off the nearest glacier]) to Tatem, where I got told off for going on the top bunk (yo dude, I, like, have a sibling and if I survived the second-hand bunk beds constructed originally by a largely unlamented ex-uncle, disassembled by my cousins [hopefully intentionally] and partially reconstructed by my father then I'm unlikely to come to great harm despite them being decorated in the national colours of IKEA) and discovered they've now decided to make the books in the post-apocalyptic damp Scout Activity Camp available for all by binding them to the beds, thus making it far harder to actually read any of them (though strangely it seems those that got nicked least were in French); welcome to the future.

So I went round the Cildo Meireles exhibition - I'm rather disappointed that when sending that name in a text message my predictive text came up with "Word not in dictionary: Spell word" with the combination... er, I've just worked something out and strongly suspect I'll have to use my excuse for using the end loo at work when all the supposedly male loos are taken*; I'm dyslexic so I can't read the symbols, which doesn't actually work as an excuse in this context but dos it (typo, but intriguing so it stays; can one call someone else a "C++"?**) it takes me a tediously long time to write a text message, possibly because of not quite having worked out which letters are on which keys along with struggling to remember where those pesky letters go into words. And then realising I've forgotten the rest of the sentence.

* Yes, there are more nominally male loos than female at work, but I think the ratio doesn't match the staff so the women are less likely encounter unyielding red. More on this topic when I remember not to stop a sentence halfway through and mislay the train of thought.

** Possibly in the world of Brave New World. And yes, I did read it assuming I was an Alpha.

Er, small digression. Cildo good. Talc less good, but rather scrunch-puffily weird. Seeing a sculpture taken out by an offroader pushchair far too amusing. Seeing a second pushchair go over the same spot fifteen seconds later quite suspenseful. Seeing the elder sister of the pushchaired both consider eating and then offer to the oblivious mother said artwork really, really funny/mortifying.

Note to draggers of touchy-feely-sucky children (Alice, not in your mouth/No, Amelie!/Jacob, don't touch. Look. No touch. No, don't. Just look. You must not touch. No. I said no. You aren't allowed to touch. Jacob! What did I tell you? Spit it out): If, on entering a darkened room with a queue of people down one side and a pool of light in the far empty corner illuminating something small, do not park the pushchairs in the far corner while you find out what the queue is for and if you can jump it because you had the ill-grace to drag something mewling with you if doing so means going straight through the oasis of light now strangely bereft of whatever it was that you were too up your own fertility to notice.

Best bit: How long it took both mothers to work out why the wall of people were either scything laser looks in their direction or killing themselves laughing, unless they'd run forward to try and sort things out. Even better was them doing three point turns over the sacred area having ordered the eldest child to drop whatever piece of detritus she'd picked up now before trundling out. Better still was the weary voice of the attendant radioing for back-up because the Southern Cross has been moved again. Then the cherry on the crème de la crème was one of the mothers popping back to ask him if they could jump the queue.

Actually, the bulldozer pushchair would have gone well in the red room (which I made partially blue and added a certain recognisable noise to by assuming the all red computer was rather more planned that the screensaver it turned out to be). It just would have been hard to stop the art taster from crawling into the fridge.

And read the bookcase.

And am I allowed to think I that I quite like an all-red room?

Oh hell, I've just realised I've perked up quite a lot and that's even with DV clumping upstairs (DV standing for... if I said that last night I dreamt I went to the house I'm currently in again...). Damn the cheering effects of Christmas cake and reduced smoothie. I was quite ready to say things that it's better not to say, although that was under the influence of falling over thrice today. I blame Oxburrow paving, the guardian of the back door of Debenhams deciding I would shoplift cheap beige pillowcases (dear God man, this is Debenhams; you're not much better than BHS, and I if I were to shoplift it'd be in Heal's and even they've gone downhill) and so making me carry each bag I had with me individually through the security barriers arrayed across the stairs then handing them back to me as I turn to leave acquitted and so newborn calf my way to a cursing heel-to-Oystercard heap at the bottom, and Thames Water (not the orange juice and coke version) whose ruptured main doused the pavement with ice (I suspect the gauge at the base of We-have-a-problem Tower was lying when it claimed +11, unless it was measuring lux) and so led to me slipping a bit, triggering an uncouth female to guffaw uproariously (how did she get her mouth so wide? I'd suggest an activity where money changed hands but suspect in her case she had to give change), cry out the result of her illuminating powers of observation, whereupon I slipped further, spiralling down towards the precipice of the kerb, cold, wet, bruise, embarrassed, infuriated, thankful I stopped just soon enough to save having to Frogger my way across the cascading contents of the main and the road (the water being a bit cold for crocodiles so no backs to hop on and off), sore and sorely wishing that she who is once more enlightening the blind, she who is begat of hyenas*, she who is seemingly unaware her cohorts have all started walking like John Wayne and developed a sudden fondness for street furniture, wishing that she would swiftly find herself returning to the gutter from whence she came.

* That probably should be begotten. Oh hell, I care about archaic grammar. Is there no hope for me? Er, actually, as I referred to the pub-staff-induced appearance of a second table at post-work drinks last night as mitosis (one person got it, which given probably only one person heard it is fairly good going for me) I think I know the answer to that question. Just as I know the answers to slightly too many questions. And yes, I know the 'from' in the last line of the previous paragraph is tautologous (hmm, why'd I just spell that like the law?) but it is a truth universally accepted that a cliché is... oh sod it, it just sounds better with a 'from'. So stick that in your snowclone and myxometaphorise it.

Er, anyway, it's now a wee bit too late, so, um...

Anyhoo,

PS. If you have the chance tomorrow go to Cildo.