where's walford?

Last night, the little box which connects us to the satellite dish went apeshit, and was pouring smoke. Padraig was alone with it at the time, and is blaming it on a ‘power surge’, whatever that is, but he’s been buggering about with it every spare moment he has, and I reckon he’s fucked it.

Padraig’s one of those people who just needs to look at something electronic for it to give up the ghost. Fair enough, some people are like that; but he, nevertheless, still grabs any remote control gadget he can get hold of and fucks about with the buttons, in complete ignorance of what he’s doing until, as in this case, something catches afire. There’ll be something of an atmosphere in the house tonight, I can tell you, if the landlord hasn’t been able to mend it, and we’re deprived of EastEnders.

Maybe I’m being unfair to Pad, ‘cos it could have been a power surge: the air conditioning units have all gone on strike, too. This is great news for mosquitoes, who detest cool air, and come out in force if the a.c.’s off – I was eaten alive last night. And the bathroom lights are out of action, too. Heigh ho!

Don’t get me started on these feet of mine: the flip flops I bought to wear whilst the other wounds healed are inflicting terrible damage between my big and second toes.

(And I take it all back about this being a fast internet cafe - it's taken 20 minutes to post this.)

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