Greetings dear hearts!

Those of you with nothing better to do may well be wondering what I've been up to of late. However, I am well aware that the majority of you haven't lost sleep on the matter, though I shant let that prevent me from passing on my very own recipe for disaster.

I have bad days at work sometimes and I don't really like humans very much at the best of times and thankfully these days, the powers that be don't let me have much contact with the public!  But I once did a job in a VIP bar in a sports ground which was my idea of hell.  The VIP's thought the best way to get my attention was to whistle at me!  As you can imagine this was not the best way to get service with a smile from me and by the time I left my main desire was to murder every single mutherfucking one of them!  Instead I had to resort to getting hammered in the shortest space of time possible.

As it happened, my youngest sibling was in attendance in London and thus we met and started upon the turbo shandies.  An ingenious concoction of lager and Smirnoff ice which is easily ingested due to it actually fooling the old grey matter into believing that you're only drinking shandy until it's too late.

Once suitably sauced, we then proceeded to have many a heated debate amongst pals until asked to leave.....well, everyone else had and it was only right that the staff be allowed to go home.

And so to the recipe - one I hasten to add may not be suitable for all palates.

Take one 10 minute stagger around the corner and add another bottle of wine, a small amount of herbs and mix well.  Call a cab whilst thus far retaining a sense of direction and the ability to communicate it and go home while it still seems the sensible option.

Once inside your chosen abode, become ravenously hungry, curse yourself for not going shopping since moving in and dig out every takeaway menu you can find.  Simmer gently on the phone for about 35 mins before realizing that it's after 3am and everywhere is closed. 

Abandon the credit card and telephone in favour of the contents of your freezer and locate the only foodstuff in there: 2 smoked haddock fishcakes.  Place in the oven at gas mark 7, retire to the sitting room and promptly fall asleep in front of the TV.

Awaken bleary eyed and return to the oven 6 and a half hours later.  The scrumptious result will be two rounded lumps of charcoal closely resembling ice hockey pucks.

Leave the back door open all day to try to rid your flat of the burnt odour that now permeates every nook and cranny and develop hypothermia.

This recipe can be changed according to taste but be aware that the result could vary.

Bon Appetite!

She stands at the edge and stares blindly into the void.  Empty bottles lie at her feet, a mixture of poisons.  Tendrils of a breeze curl up around her like a malevolent spirit.  It lifts her hair away from her face.  She closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath.    

She steps out into the darkness and lets her weight pull her forward and the breeze mutates into a gale.  Her hair is flying out behind her, ripped away from her face.  She is aware of it fluttering like streamers in the currents of air.  Her arms are outstretched and she can feel her body tilting, trying to find it's natural balance. She opens her eyes.  It's difficult at first.  She can feel tears stinging her cheeks and she has a momentary panicked thought that she's blind.  But then she remembers that there's nothing here.  Nothing to see, just pitch black.  An idea steals into her mind.  She turns her head around to look behind her and her body pitches itself into a half somersault.  She's face up now, she can see her hair and the light that she's casting as she falls.  It's like looking at the tail of a comet.  She tries to move her hair but her equilibrium is upset and she's tumbling again. 

Calm in the knowledge that her life force is still burning ferociously, she faces down again and continues her descent.  Suddenly something flashes past her.  She becomes aware of the passing rock face and begins to notice small ledges jutting out here and there.  She sees you sitting, watching her and the rage erupts from the depths of her soul.  She hears a banshee scream and realises it's coming from her mouth.  She looks for the next ridge on which you sit and as she shrieks past she shoots out an arm and tries to grab you.  She misses and scrapes her fingers off the rock.  She's spinning out of control.  Her nails are bleeding.  No matter.  She'll try again next time and sometimes she'll miss, sometimes she won't. 

For now though, she's alone again.  She grins.  Then throws her head back and howls with laughter.