A break for the border

My dear mother phoned me up to give me a bit of an ear bashing for not having called in over a week last night. I wonder how she would feel if, like my sisters and my friends, she'd be lucky to get one phone call biannually. Its not that I don't like talking to them you understand, I'm just cripplingly lazy when it comes to shit like that, and when I do phone people I know, the only effect it really serves is reminding me just how little 'news' I have, outside of what films/books/TV shows/flavour of peanuts I'm currently enjoying, and that really ain't worth pickin the phone up for. That, in fact, is why god gave us blogs.
I am confident that this state of affairs will change though, as this not-having-a-life malarky is not really working out for me. Once upon a time, whenever something shite came on telly, rather than watch it anyway, I'd go upstairs and do some writing instead- thus forgoing the whole 'I could write better than this' chestnut (as my dad says). The trouble with this was that the good people at Channel 4/BBC/everyone else didn't see it this way, and if they had even considered me worth talking to, would have probably advised me to stay in front of the box watching Hollyoaks after all. These people, I need hardly tell you, are wrong, and though I have yet to experience the upswing in my creative juices that I thought my Lenten sacrifices would herald, I am definitely getting pissed off enough to start writing letters again.
...Then they'll be sorry.