Rhapsody

My brother and I found ourselves launching into our world famous a capella version of Bohemian Rhapsody, which is something beautiful to hear. I must say, he has the guitar solo begging at his feet like an anthropomorphic and metaphorical dog that is being used to represent his mastery over a piece of music. Apart from that I tidied my room (I know. I sometimes have an obsessively tidy room, but generally only when I'm angry, and nothing in the holidays can raise me from my stupor long enough to actually irritate me) and then went rambling with my family (I had no choice. And if you knew my family you would know the true meaning of the word 'rambling'. Make of that what you will). And my mum decided that at all the venues she goes to weddings at (and she goes to a lot of weddings) she will take a photo of the toilets, and we can make our own ranking chart of function rooms in the north east, entirely based on the comfort of the toilets. I think this is perfectly sensible and reasonable, and if I ever get married I will take due note of the quality of the necessary facilities. My goodness, aren't you bored of reading this yet? You surely must be, because I'm bored of writing it, and I assure you I am capable of wallowing in the glories of my own creations long after the actual glory has disappeared, historical peasant tracks have been built around the wallow-y, and presumably muddy and marshy patch where the glory used to be, then a slightly more sophisticated ancient civilization has tried to build a causeway straight through it and failed, then an era of people ruled by a fat queen with a whole brood of children who is highly unamused by even the most amusing situations have succeeded in draining it- and interestingly gained physical evidence of the curvature of the earth with the long pipes used to drain it- meaning there is nothing, therefore, left to wallow in. If you follow my drift. Pip pip.