I'm not sure if it's healthy that the only thing I really want to blog about is the portaloo I've been sharing with my Dad and a man named Alan this week (Alan is a nice man by the way). See, who says life ends after university? Alan calls the Portaloo the tardis - now if that isn't an anecdote to spend Friday night telling the disinterested interweb about then I don't know what is.
The most interesting thing about my portaloo is that it smells like jelly beans...do all portaloos smell like jelly beans? I'm very curious, having never really used one that wasn't already a plastic bucket of turd with the remnants of a poor diet festering on the seat, I have no idea if a clean portaloo will always smell like jellybeans or if mine is a prodigy?
I've obviously named the portaloo, my dumper truck is called Bertha for anyone who was interested, and my portaloo is called Melanie (she was bullied at school and called Melly Bean because of her fragrance, I feel quite sorry for her). We're getting on very well, even after I reversed Bertha into her - I was testing how good my perception was and it turns out it's not terrible but does result in my trying to get the red paint from Bertha's ass off Melanie before anyone comes round the corner.
I'm enjoying my little truck dumping shenanigans this week - the cold of a 6am start has made me re evaluate my planned clothing for Lapland though - I'm now intending to shear a dog every morning and just inhabit it's still warm remains. Only joking, of course (wasn't it hilarious). The satisfaction of watching my mound of earth grow is almost equal to the buzz of an eloquent sentence in an essay, making me question the £15,000 I just spent on a degree. At least with mud you can go and play in it when you've finished - no one ever had a good fight in a heap of essays. Or potentially lecturers do and that's why they fail so miserably at getting your grades to you within a useful time period.
So mud and poo cabins have been the main theme of my week and I couldn't be happier.
Song of the day; A rewrite of the Moody Blues' classic, focussing on the modern woman's right to express her true self through her choice of evening wear; "Tarts in White Trousers"