Well, last week was spent busily beavering away with Annie and Robin working to have some kind of marketing plan for my comics. It was very funny; it almost felt like a job for a moment there, with Annie coming up with lots of ideas, me looking a bit blank and then hiding and doodling and Robin taking notes like a good support worker should. Whether or not I'll make any money out of it all remains to be seen, but my suspicion is that I won't, but it's worth doing anyway.
Jonathan and I spent Saturday mooching around Chiswick and bouncing around in sofa showrooms and spending far longer than is healthy pretending to give two hoots about which light fittings we get for the flat when we move. Saturday night was a boat party in Chelsea at a friend's house boat, which was wonderful. A few of the men there kept disappearing into the bathroom to furtively do drugs (at a house party? Silly orange people.) whereas I snuck off into the bathroom to get changed out of my long johns because the coal fire was making me sweat like I was going class A crazy. This precaution was purely practical rather than sartorial, as the party didn't descend nearly as far as I'd hoped, so no danger of committing the fashion faux pas of turning up to an orgy in thermals.
Jonathan also complained that I've been terribly well behaved lately - not that he was desperate for me to initiate some kind of crazy meth binge orgy at a friend's housewarming, but perhaps he has a point. We spent Sunday morning talking to a bathroom fitter who thought it would cost us ten thousand pounds to get a new bathroom. I just thought I should be given money to endure another moment of pondering which kind of chrome taps I'd want. So, Jonathan might have had a point that I've become a little domesticated lately. In any case, I figure that's a gauntlet being thrown down and he might just regret it!
New year, old me. There might be tears before bedtime.