Little Miss Busy

 

Yesterday was one of those days when I was what comedian Micky Flanagan would call 'double busy'. The result of this was that I finally came home just before 10pm, wolfed down a couple of slices of pizza and went to bed without giving myself time to wind down properly. Unsurprisingly, I couldn't sleep, so I got up and, having put the finishing touches to the general crossword in Saturday's paper, I switched on the TV for some mindless entertainment.

This is how I came to be watching Don't Tell The Bride at 3am. Good grief, what a strange world we live in where we can make a programme about a hapless man organising a wedding in secret from his betrothed. Will she hate it? Will he stick to the budget? Do we care? It was awful and yet awesome. It did the trick, though, and I was able to nod off when I went back to bed.

When my eyes reluctantly opened this morning, it took me a while to realise that the numbers displayed on my clock-radio were not the Radio 4 frequency, 94.5 FM, but the time: quarter to ten. Now I'm spending the whole day playing catch-up. Double busy, again.