Trapping my thoughts in the words on the screen you see before you is like that Quidditch scene from one of the Harry Potter movies where he's after the Golden Snitch and everyone's out to get him, including the balls (I can't wait for the new movie), only I've got no head for heights, no magic, and definitely no broomstick.
You know, I try.
Today's topic of conversation is dolls. I'm quite like one of those dolls that have those weighted eyelids and when you tilt them past a certain degree, their eyes shut. Only mine are installed the other way around and when I lie down I'm fully awake.
What else. Oh right, I hate dolls. They give me the heebeejeebees. There was this cross stitch of a little girl sitting amongst her tiny dolls playing 'tea party'. My mother thought it was beautiful and hung it above my bed, and for five years I had nightmares of this fatass slave driver making her distressed Lilliputians eat forever and ever. Or something along those lines.
I'm currently seeking comfort in the arms of Football Manager and have just finished my first season. A late charge saw me snatch victory from the other big three but I've only got a 4.9mill transfer budget. Who do they think I'm going to buy with that? Maybe a pet canary to take on Arsenal. Yea, that'll work.
I think I'm starved for entertainment, but I'm happy.
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