The bloody postman still hasn't delivered my harmonica mic. I ordered it weeks ago and it still hasn't arrived. I suppose it isn't really his fault..........unless he's stolen it! Yes, that could be it! Still shy of his Christmas bonanza, when he nicks tenner's out of festive cards sent from aunties and uncles to their poor impoverished nieces and nephews, he has decided to steal my harmonica microphone to somehow supplement his less than perfect wage, the fat bastard!
I concede that it probably isn't his fault my package hasn't arrived yet, but its weird how you can sometimes focus blame onto other people who aren't really responsible for a grievance, but it helps you to use them for it anyway. But if I see him walking down the road jamming along to Howling Wolf records with an amplified blues harp I will not be pleased. Even if it does make him a bit cooler.
Have spent the evening listening to records and going though loads of my old notebooks from a few years ago, like my journal of my backpacking trip around Europe I did when I was 18 I think. I kept muttering to myself 'What a dickhead!', and shaking my head at the sanctimonious bollocks I wrote on that trip. To read it you would think I was a pioneering explorer in the South Pole or one of the first westerners to reach the source of the Congo or something, and not just a pretentious teenager inter-railing around Europe.
It's an odd sensation whenever you revisit something personal or opinionated you wrote when you were younger, and even six or seven years is enough. It's like it's someone else who's written it but you almost still recognise a hidden part of your current self within it - and above all it's weirdly embarrassing to read, when you realise what a twat you used to be and unfortunately, probably still are!
And if I thought my diary's and journals were pretentious, I haven't even started on my poetry yet.
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