It's a cold, grey wet Sunday in my part of England. This describes most Sundays actually. Sitting at my computer, having a depressing and pointless chat with Provost Harrison (this describes most chats with him actually ), my mind wandered back to the copy of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy I have and, with dawning horror, I realised I had found myself in the Long, Dark Teatime of the Soul. That horrific patch of time between 2pm and 4:30 when you've read the paper, had breakfast, taken a few baths, had a few cups of tea, and now find yourself with the mindnumbing madness of boredom creeping up behind you.
I went into overdrive. I cleaned my room. I re-arranged my wardrobe. I sorted out my clothes and donated some to charity. I threw away my pornography and any pictures of me between the ages of 15-17 when I had a stupid patch of moss I called a goatee. I ordered a re-print of a Soviet era propaganda poster to go in my room. I checked my bank account. Twice.
I only have 15 minutes to go until 5 pm and I can focus on the activities for the evening. Help me. For the love of gods, tell me what you do/have done to get through this horrible stretch of mental oblivion....
I went into overdrive. I cleaned my room. I re-arranged my wardrobe. I sorted out my clothes and donated some to charity. I threw away my pornography and any pictures of me between the ages of 15-17 when I had a stupid patch of moss I called a goatee. I ordered a re-print of a Soviet era propaganda poster to go in my room. I checked my bank account. Twice.
I only have 15 minutes to go until 5 pm and I can focus on the activities for the evening. Help me. For the love of gods, tell me what you do/have done to get through this horrible stretch of mental oblivion....
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