losticini

Some weeks seem to take you, twist you and wring you like a cloth, squeeze the energy out of you and then throw you into a corner from which you eventually crawl, groping for a coffee and a bar of chocolate - anything to recharge the batteries, even if you are alergic to caffine and drinking it is like licking your fingers and sticking them into a power socket.

Zap! And we're off, shaking merrily and laughing like a maniac. I really shouldn't do it, but hey, it's just a little coffee... I can give it up any time. And the chocolate? Well, that's got to count as a soft drug, surely?

Maybe if I hide them from myself. But even my failing memory is good enough when it comes to guilty pleasures: I can always remember where, when and generally how. If not who. OK, perhaps I could bribe one of the cats to bury the groceries. As long as it's not in their litter tray. Though that would be one way of keeping off the poisonous stuff. No, the half-Siamese is staring at me with that puzzled expression when I try to persuade him. The Human is talking gibberish again.

I'll just have to find some other vices. Suggestions on a postcard, please.