Danger Lunch

Today I stayed at the office for lunch and ate pasta, to minimise the chances of choking to death on my own. However, the pasta I had was full of stringy green shoots that kept getting stuck in my craw, so I almost choked to death (or boked all over my workmates) instead. Seems like there's nothing so threatening as food.

I also ate an apple, but that's not such thrilling news. Not when you come from the spinetingling terror of tofurkey.

Speaking of terror, I've been reading Black Wings Of Cthulhu, an anthology of Lovecraftian horror. There's a good one in there by Michael Marshall Smith, the first, perhaps, in the genre of suburban-middle-class-online-supermarket-delivery-Lovecraftian-horror, which works much better than I've made it sound. There's only two stories I've already read (both from New Cthulhu) and it all makes me feel I should be working harder on my own story. But so little time, what with running, and the office, and avoiding dying at the hands of snack food. With any luck I can do some more at the weekend.

Other than that, I did nothing of note today; one of those days where one listlessly moves a mouse across the desktop, trying and somehow failing to be effectual, and then looking at the clock to see you've been in the office for ten and a half hours straight, undoing all the good of the morning's exercise by scoffing bags of Haribo. Tomorrow, I will stop. Demain, j'arrete, as I saw on a t-shirt in Montmartre almost twenty years ago. (The effect is confused when I tell you it was next to a picture of a cartoon rabbit holding a carrot taller than itself.) Or maybe that's Gallic-Lovecraftian-lapidary-horror. You read it here first.

If I get round to writing it, that is.