I can never remember

if the saying is "more haste, less speed" or "less haste, more speed".

Anyway, I allowed myself to be side-tracked into a rant about bad personal habits, that was not on reflection even particularly comprehensive (thanks largely to the fact that he hasn't been off to fuck that creature in Philadelphia recently and nothing in his behaviour has suggested she's been here for a visit - so I haven't had the time to get into the squalid space at the top of the stairs which is his, and no-one else can safely enter without full bio-suit).

The point really, and why I was so steamed up in the first place, is that the fat fucker is sprawled out on his bed, leaving me trapped down here in the kitchen. I cannot yet risk going upstairs or he will be down like a shot (or like a rat down a sewer) to sprawl over the floor with his hand down his pants watching what ever it is when he thinks he can get away with it.

I've cleaned out the magazines he's kept under the bed in the past, the ones that boast in their titles of the age of the pictured females, border-line stuff; and the faux-coffee table, faux-high-art (it isn't porn its erotica, there's a difference you know - it costs lots to get all that soft lighting right and cotswold cottages as backdrops don't come cheap you know, compared with a council estate two-up-two-down on a sink estate in the vicinity of Birmingham) stuff that was in a way more nauseating. So I know what you like; you fat middle-aged miserable bastard.

You can run, but you can't hide.