I am without question rather more accustomed to crawling into bed as the sun comes up than I am to waking up before it has done so. If I had set my alarm for 6am yesterday it would have gone off as I was brushing my teeth.
This morning I truly felt like a rat, as in the race of the same name. Barely alive, monging not mosying my way to the station, neither aware nor concerned as to whether or not I was wearing trousers (turns out I was). I had wanted to watch an episode of The Sopranos on the way to work, having recently been awakened as to quite how brilliant this show is. The French would say "c'est magnifique", the internet geeks: "teh awesome".
But it didn't happen, woe is fucking me as other inconsiderate people got on the train and there wasn't space for the computer on the table. What a twattish gripe that was.
Having started writing I've realised I have nothing particularly to say, no pertinent point to make, no witty zinger to finish with. I suppose this post merely serves as my reentry into the blogging world; writing as an exercise, to stretch my literary legs, no matter how mundane the subject matter and how trivial the trivia.