Ray is now residing in my living room and every morning I wake up to total disarray. That's if I can face going in there. The stench is far from favourable and usually keeps me from entering - its a particularly noxious combination of dirty pants, socks, vomit, stale alcohol and cheap aftershave. Most evenings after he has conked out infront of the TV I close the door and roll an old towel into a snake-like draught excluder to stop the smell drifting into other parts of the flat. I have designated the kitchen out of bounds as he is a pure hazard with flames and hot liquids. Last week I came home to find him trying to ignite the electric grill with a lighter. I had to grapple the lighter off him and shove a can of super strength lager in his hand to prevent an inferno in my kitchen. The flat is begininning to look like a troupe of destructive two year olds has torn through it, leaving empty cans, bottles and puddles of pee in their wake. I caught him urinating in my house plants the other day.
So I have spent most of the weekend out and about. I hung around the station most of Saturday researching ideas for my show, its going to have a pants theme. I shall be playing 'Donald Where's Your Troosers?', 'Baggy Trousers' and 'Don't Put Your Trousers on Your Head'. Thankfully Pierre has gone on a study break back to France and with Ray out of action I had free reign in the studio. I bought a packet of Nice biscuits to lighten the team's return to work but ate them in one sitting with a steaming mug of milk. Small pleasures go a long way when one feels an outsider in his own home.
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