Bored of excitement – The griefjunkie blog 

Dear Rachel

‘She’s Scottish. Yeah baby she’s Scottish.‘ So sang Bananama in their hit single ‘I’m Your Venus’, used most recently in the Gilette lady razor adverts. I am reminded of this every time I go to buy a newspaper from the bloke in the paper shop near Greenwich Market, who unaccountably has them mingled in among the fags and rolling tobacco. I’m not one to gossip but I think he records cctv footage of female customers and then puts it on the internet.

That probably isn’t true, although I’ll ask you to assume that it totally is, because he just looks the sort, and I can’t see why you’d want to look like the sort of person who records cctv footage of female customers and puts it on the internet if you weren’t actually the sort of person who does record cctv footage of female customers and put it on the internet. It would be like habitually walking around with a ladder and a bucket of water, but not actually being a window cleaner. There would be absolutely no point.

[Hitting Read More now will reveal exciting, and at the same time, not excting, times in south London]

Sex case or not, I have pretty much cleaned him out of herbal tea recently. Not because I am a lesbian, but because I have been a bit jumpy.

I don’t want anyone running away with the idea that I am one of those, I dunno, weak people – I list kebabs, lager, foul language, swarthiness and light recreational brawling among my leisure activities. However, I have recently had something akin to anxiety attacks, which have been an interesting experience. I dunno why they are called anxiety attacks, as surely we would all feel much happier about them if they were called excitement breaks, a term I personally prefer to use. This makes more sense because if nothing else they certainly get your adrenaline going. I was so full of adrenaline recently that I could actually taste it. It tastes of what I imagine lemon scented washing up liquid tastes like, which is quite refreshing. I’m sure we all welcome a bit of a freshen up when every singe neuron in every single cell in every single fibre of your body is rioting.

It could also be that my ever pragmatic internal organs have decided to synthesise household detergent in an attempt to dissolve the tide of kebabs hurtling towards them, and this would indeed be a significant and pleasing evolutionary step. In any case, what I might start to do is carry pictures of exciting stuff around with me – tigers, roller coasters, aerial combat, that sort of thing – and look at them next time my heart seems to want to burst through my ribcage like a cat jumping through a Venetian blind. It will be like I am actually there, like HD telly. Well, you have to make the best of things, don’t you.

Photards: Top – Gary who is our internet man, and currently building the new version of this very site. He is pictured here in the Duke of Wellington public house, at about two in the morning. Or, if his lovely girlfriend Kate is reading, at about seven in the evening.

Middle: TUNNELS OF MYSTERY under London Bridge tube station. Who knows where they lead? Well, to a lift. But who knows where the lift goes? Actually, I do – it goes to the ticket hall. But other than that, it’s guesswork. Might be haunted I suppose. I dunno.

Bottom: That, would you believe, calls itself the countryside. Whatever. No wonder no one lives there. What are you supposed to do all day?

Twitter.

Facebook. Yeah alright, there are only 93 people in it, but it’s doubled in a month. They’re breeding like rabbits in there.