Sometimes I wonder exactly what I spend my time doing.

I was chatting to a friend online the other day and she reviled her whole exciting life or travelling abroad, meeting friends, making progress, networking, restaurants and more company perks that you can shake a stick at. What surprised me however was that she did a lot of overtime and with the travelling but still managed to go out clubbing once a week and meet up with friends in the pub or at her house at least twice a week and attend a book club.

How? At the end of the working day, I’m barely conscious, let alone able to stir myself into doing something else productive aside from poking K-chan and occasionally feeling motivated enough to clean the flat.

It comes to something when napping actually ranks fairly highly on my list of afternoon activities. I have come to relish coming in from work for a little hour/half hour shut eye.

Fairly convinced that there is another version of me skittering around Gloucester/York/Cambridge who is fantastically thin, glamorous, winning teacher of the year awards and driving a car that didn’t need jump starting last Thursday Evening after the dozy driver left her lights on all day and broke the battery. Her name is probably Jewel, Betty, Teacake … or Monster Munch.

In other news our neighbour has gone slightly dippy. To say nothing of the random Dyson on the front doorstep … The random wooden bedstead being hurled out of the front door to lie on the lawn in bits … or the cat with the inexplicable name of Busta Rhymes (our Iori) … and a dog that is NEVER walked or let out. On Sunday night he took out a large pile of twigs and general leafery onto the other side of the road where there is an electricity sub station, piled it high, doused it in petrol and set it alight.

Clever Boy. Only thing is is that it’s only the petrol that is burning and gusting everywhere and the only thing that managed to burn to a cinder was one of his slippers (that was sat rather sadly in the considerably-charred and noticeably not-much-smaller pile of twiggery).

This isn’t the only weird neighbour we have. We have the guy beneath us who doesn’t know the meaning of the word … quiet … He has slammed his own front door so hard that he has broken the blind in front of it. He stomps about like an elephant in hobnails and more to the point he is cranky. He doesn’t like the idea of us having our recycling box in our backyard (which we have to share despite him maintaining it’s his).

… so we were rather amused when he got his mower out this week and accidently ploughed through his predecessors beautiful mini flower bed with a wild orchid growing in it. The Scandinavian insults were rather loud ^_^

This is no doubt the first in a long line of nutty neighbours. Next door apparently live there but they haven’t yet left the house.