No title possible for such disconnected topics

The weekend was blissful thanks to good weather and nice people. It was also massively competitive, as I engaged in a round of Bingo Tunes on Friday evening, where the DJ played small excerpts of many familiar songs in fairly quick succession, and we had to cross them all off our cards [see above]. I had arrived late and knew full well that my chances of winning had taken a battering as a result. Furthermore, the prize was four pints of cocktails, which might have been a little too much, even for me, and I don't think takeaway was an option. But despite knowing that I couldn't win and that I didn't want the prize, I was unable to speak to anyone or even enter into a spot of dancing, as crossing the songs off my cards (I had three as I took my friends' on the understanding that I would be better at it than them) became my obsession. Recognising each track was not enough: I had to identify it within the first bar and a half, and have it crossed out before the vocals kicked in. Failure to do so would result in a spate of violent mental self-flaggelation, inspired by the scary posh monk in The Da Vinci Code. Eventually, someone else won the prize and I was able to relax, even managing to smile at the people near me, and it wasn't long before the dancing started in earnest and the alcohol I'd already consumed began to pour out from my forehead a la the pilot in Airplane. Stunning.

Less than twenty four hours later, my blood was up again as I was in west London for a charidee pub quiz, where our team trailed by around half a point for almost the entire evening. It was particularly infuriating because we did extremely well in an exceptionally tricky music intros round, with songs by Jurassic 5, the Stone Roses, Maximo Park, Foo Fighters, Catatonia and Portishead - not your average recognisable chart fodder. We didn't win but, having supplied several crucial and typically highbrow answers including the nationality of the chef in the Muppets and which of the seven dwarves wears glasses, I felt like I'd pulled my weight.

Sunday was unexpectedly glorious, and crowned by the news that, miracle of miracles, my parents' cat, Dennis, who escaped from a cat basket outside the cattery in the middle of nowhere back in October last year, had been found and taken to a vet's. I went back to my parents' after work last night to see him and he is mental, one moment being quite happy and just the same, and then suddenly hissing and growling in a fairly hilarious fashion. What's most disappointing is that, despite having six months to learn, he is still unable to speak English; I am desperate to find out where he's been all this time but he pointedly ignores my questioning.

The other morning, I got myself in quite a pickle. I had been having a shower and the bathroom got a little steamy, so on completion of my ablutions, I opened the window. This window faces out onto a communal walkway, and is near a communal stairwell. There is rarely anyone direcly outside my flat, but the stairwell is used quite frequently. I brushed my teeth, was applying my moisturiser, and then something very uncharacteristic occurred. I did a burp. Readers, I am as disgusted as you are. But there it is. And immediately, my surprise was flooded by panic, as I realised that, due to the open window, anyone walking downstairs, or indeed up, may have heard my repellent emission. The filing drawers of my mind slammed open and I could hear my cranial fingers leafing through my options. Within a time that I would estimate to be two seconds at most, I found my solution: blame.
"Urgh!" I exclaimed, disgustedly, and then followed that immediately with a deep bass "Sorry," the grunted apology of an invented male. Staggered at the speed, dishonesty and cunning of my solution, I had to accept that I am perhaps more dark and conniving than I may have admitted previously.

Now I am sitting at my desk, nursing a burned tongue after yet another wolfed lunchtime soup. I simply don't understand why EAT must heat their soup to boiling point like that. With the possible exception of McDonald's apple pies, I am aware of no other take-away foodstuff that requires the purchaser to sit and wait for 25 minutes before beginning the eating process. The whole point of take-away is that it's fast food. It should be ready for consumption. I don't want to plan ahead and buy my food at 11.45am, so that it's at a temperature less akin to lava by the time I am hungry. I shouldn't have to. You don't have to let sandwiches 'relax', or wait while sushi marinates. Things soup should be: 1) nicely hot. Things soup should not be: 1) still bubbling when I take the lid off back at my desk; 2) able to remove three layers of skin from the roof of my mouth just from the power of the steam emanating off the spoon; 3) capable of bonding a wobbly bit on the Flatiron building. Since today's chicken and garden vegetable broth is the last thing I am going to be able to savour for the next few days, thanks to the destruction of the majority of my tastebuds, it is fortunate that it was delicious.