Woke up, got out of bed, cracked open an egg for a Domelette and its a double!! First time ever, in the world, I’ve heard the legend of the double Yolker, but it only happens in Hollywood, Bollywood or Pinewood Studios, or as it happens, in Clifton on High, the pinnacle of exciting things. So despite the incoming storm, the darkness of the skies and the fullness of the clouds, waiting to drop, the double Yolker, which happened to me, and I believe the legend has it that whosoever finds the double Yolker will become Prime Minister of Great Britain. To be fair I’m kind of pissed off its taken this long to get a crack at the job, do they know who I am?

In other news, I spoke to the regular Bottomist, Dr S today and he informed me of absolutely nothing I may or may not have written recently, this is either due to his laziness to read or my laziness to produce; probably my lack of production, I’ve got nothing to say, its hardly a bare knuckle ride life wise at the moment. The daughter has gone to Uni, the house is quieter, less disagreements, sadly we’ve reached the Seasonally Predictable reality TV season, Christmastime in case you’ve missed it and so the house is a calmer place. But today I went to work with a white kitchen and returned with a Raven Flight wall, velvet paint texture according to the cans, and it looks proper sexy, proper grown up, like a brothel in Paris (apparently) not for me to report.

This winter, aside from the unescapable televisual liquid shit, where we watch C listers prostitute themselves to afford a shiny holiday next year with a fancy man/woman enabling them to invite the Paparazzi and thus sell column inches, and the whole sorry untalented shit show repeats itself, enough celebrity compost to cultivate a plethora of Courgettes or Cucumbers, both vegetables have the ability to make a Demi-Jon of wine which looks like a gallon of spunk; my experience but don’t let me put you off.