Not having a bath (and other Sunday night randoms)

Half an hour ago Soph said she was going for a bath.

Because it is Sunday, obv.

Anyway.

We are both still on the couch.

Listening to music.

So far we have heard three versions of Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’.

And ‘Every Breath You Take’ by Scala and Kolacny Brothers.

And ‘Nothing Else Matters’, also by Scala and Kolacny Brothers.

And ‘Creep’ (off of Radiohead – and yes, the version with the ‘F’ word!), also by Scala and Kolacny Brothers.

I don’t think I could listen to a full-on album. Their vocals are great for the first five or six minutes and then…

Meh.

But I really do wish they hadn’t chosen that Police song that we listened to earlier.

Sting doesn’t need the money.

Neither does Thom Yorke, obv.

But I do.

Oh.

I haven’t written any songs.

That’ll be why, then.

She’s gone now.

Soph.

To the bath.

With her iPod and an episode of The Archers podcast.

That leaves me down here.

Alone.

You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?

Me.

Downstairs.

By myself.

For fifteen minutes?

Yep.

The kettle’s going on.

And the Cadbury’s Caramel is coming out of the fridge.

I shan’t tell her, of course.

I shall dispose of the evidence – both solid and liquid – in a timely manner.

Oh.

Bugger.

I have taken so long chatting to Leigh and Matty B on Skype whilst also writing this that Soph is back from the bath.

She is wearing a bathrobe.

That’s handy.

And she’s shredding.

That’s not a euphemism.

And now she’s taken the BIG bar of Cadbury’s Caramel and put it back in the fridge.

Oh no.

I am undone.

That’s not a euphemism either.

And now she’s gazing at me with her best moo eyes and suggesting we go to bed.

See you tomorrow!

p.s. Sunday evenings are weird, aren’t they?