Or at least, that’s what I tell people.
I’ve had a rather busy month, and it’s all about to come to a head. It’s not the best way to end an eventful few weeks, but it has to be done, and do it I will.
It started with a dare.
“I dare you,” said my Nan. “To live your life according to a pop song.”
That was my first mistake. My Nan has a wicked sense of humour, and a mean streak that puts a bright glint in her eye.
The first part was easy. I just got a frozen one from Sainsbury’s and held it aloft in the garden. Then there was the obligatory Instagram photo my me pushing my nostril down on one of her pieces of garden furniture. I had to skip part three for a bit, so I dug a hole and dumped my wardrobe in it.
With my synovial joint suitably emerald, I was still wondering how I could afford a plane, especially after the hefty, and unnecessary dental bill. Convincing some musicians to join me was weirdly made easier by the deception I then adopted around my name. I couldn’t sing because of the swelling, and I don’t own a violin.
But I was always good at languages, so I skipped to that one, before deciding that I just couldn’t bring myself to do that to Rover. I ruminated on the morals of murder, whilst ruminating on an old exhaust pipe. That was easier than I had expected actually, because the odour from my ears actually gave it some edible taste.
So here I am, one hearty meal inside me, and one buried relative fewer, preparing to fall on my sword.
Nan doesn’t think I’ve lived up to the spirit of the dare. I’ve failed to do three things. Well, four, but she’s going to use my skin afterwards for something, just by way of forfeit.
The spears are mounted on the wall, and all I can smell is salami.
Here we go.