Getting Back On The Horse

Look, apologies for the lack of input this week. I know some of you swing by A Grey Area to get a taste of the heady world I inhabit, while others just check in to see if I’ve still got a pulse. I’ve managed to furnish proof of neither in the last few days and I'm sorry.

That’s because I am in the middle of testing a website that is about to launch. Who knew it would be this much fun?

I always assumed that doing repetitive, detailed work that required concentration and the self-awareness of a battery hen all day would leave me refreshed and in the mood to pump out a few hundred words of entertaining insight as light relief.

Turns out, no.

So at least when I get home there’s still some Buffy the Vamp… what!? We’ve finished it?

I keep repressing that.

If you watch 144 hours of blood spattered entertainment, it becomes a gross habit. (I made a “unit of measurement” joke. Oh baby - I still got it.)

When it all comes to an end… well you need a little something to... you know. Hey, I’m sick man. Just a little taste. I swear it’ll be the last episode I watch. Common’! Just some credits… I’ll lick your… ahem.

So apparently, the methadone is supposed to be Angel. I could go on a long time about the indefinable “it” that is required to carry a TV series - and how some people don‘t have it. I could bang on about the unconquerable division between physical and personal attractiveness of the main damsel. (Seriously, I don’t care how rack-tastic you are. An arsehole is an arsehole.) Instead, I will simply say this; When you're using Angel, I know why you might have lapses and accidentally break into people’s houses to borrow a couple of quick discs of BTVS.