*staggers into lounge, closes door and sits on sofa*
Ahhh. What. A. Day.
Exhausted. Haven't been this knackered since yesterday.
Yesterday. Jesus. That was incident packed.
Can't believe he puked up on that random fellas shoes in Costa. That's why I never buy suede, you just can't clean it. I saw him trying to wipe it off with a napkin, he was making it worse. Like he was smearing pancake mix.
I mean, I probably should've stopped to help him but it was a proper emergency so had to get to the toilet. The other one was leaking like a rusty old radiator.
So that was yesterday.
Whereas today was just weird.
That woman practically chased me out of Tesco and down the street just to get a look at the lads. Yes, they're twins. Get over it. It's hardly worthy of freakshow-level attention. You'd think they were real life Oompa Loompas the way some people carry on.
Then there was that stupid old bat who grabbed his bottle and shoved it in his mouth when he was clearly feeding himself and having a break. Idiot. How would she like it if I rammed a sausage roll into her gob down the bingo?
Silly old goat.
Anyway. Time to unwind and watch some terrible telly. An hour of turning my brain off and just relaxing.
Look at that stain on my t-shirt. I look like the Shroud of Turin.
Where's the remote control? It's not on the sofa. Must be on the floor.
It'll be in the usual place. No, not down the side of the sofa either.
Where the bloody hell is it? I can't turn the telly on without it. Or can I? Can't see any buttons on the front.
*starts running hands over front of TV*
So I'm 37 years old and I'm spending my Saturday night groping a telly. Looking for a nipple. This is ridiculous.
WHERE THE FUCK IS THE REMOTE?
Ah! I know!
*checks fridge. Finds remote*