I don't think I'll ever be tired of being tired. Well - at least when I'm by myself. When I'm with someone else, I'm a horrible ratty fuck who'll bite your hand off if you offer me the slightest human kindness as my good lady Jane has found out. But anyway: tired. That's me. Not for any reason except for reviewing a game as much as a human body can possibly handle, leading me to be unable to start a conversation without claiming to be the King of Spain and explaining - at length - my plan to domainate the mediteraniean through my frontier-base in Malta.

Momentous week for a couple of reasons. Random, pointless reasons, which are always the best kind of of momentous.

Firstly, it was the week of the Sockpocalypse. My increasingly desperate attempts to get more wear out of my mismatched socks reached critical point, and I realised that I should - whisper it - buy some fucking socks. This is unprecedented. Socks have always been an item that I could survive from whatever ones were given to me for Christmas, Birthdays or the shitload I bought at the beginning of university. Shit - it's not as if they run out quickly. Until now, it seems, where I trundled into Marks and Sparks to buy ten pairs of plain black ones.

Wierd. Because M&S is a shop I always connect with the mysteries of motherhood. Mum knows M&S. Me? It's the place I kept on trying to be so much of a pre-teen fuck we'd get out of there as quickly as possible. It smelt odd. The food look wierd. The women behind the counter were strange, twisted earthern-skin creatures entirely unlike the down-market tat of the Co-op or the No-qualification school-leavers of Woolies (Two shops that loomed in the postive pantheon of my childhood. They had /toys/).

And now I'm going into M&S to buy woolen sheafes for my feet.

Look everyone - I'm an adult.

Second event was me discovering something about my CD collection. At some point since I last swept my in-uses CDs back on the shelves with the rest, I reached the point where there simply were too many records to fit in my alloted space. By counting how many in each row (70) and how many rows (12), I calculate the rough value of my CD collection.

I think of insurance. And that realisation makes me realise I'm a little more adult.

Don't worry immaturity fans: I'm writing on my computer that's clearly on the edge of having a nervous breakdown, despite the fact I'm clearly risking my hard-drive crashing or something and losing expanses of work I don't have backed up.
I'm not all that grown up yet.