Lucy Cried Today. Or Maybe Yesterday.

Lucy cried today. Or maybe yesterday. I don't know. I read a Tweet from her iPhone: 'Lucy crying away*. She has a fun run tomorrow. Yours sincerely.' That doesn't mean anything. It may have been yesterday.

It was definitely today, actually, thinking about it morefully. Because it was this morning when I went down town to put a bet on her losing her back during the fun run. I could have done an accumulator, but the odds on her voice "going all Lilly Allen" after the run were pretty short.

Hence the crying. I don't know why she's having a go at me, when it was her that said "ooooh, isn't my back all bumpy? Bet it's trying to escape, mad back". Either way, if it pays off we're quidded out to the jowel sack, and if not - she keeps her bumpy back for next year's funny dash-about. Win win.

I've had a look-see online, and already picked what I'll treat her to - spinal shoes.

I see that they supply them at WHAT? store in Covent Garden, so I'll pop down there and eye them off. Noticed online that they also do mens trainers, made from Mens Authentic & Real Dendritic Spines (M.A.R.D.S.) - might get myself a pair, but only if they supply them from Irish bone.

I can see it now, she'll be all floppy and rubber-minded on the sofa, resting up after her run (in which she tip-toed the last mile). She's bound to be chucking heavy tones my way all evening, so I'll play along and be awfully nice throughout our dinner - I'll ask questions like "how's your mother's hamstring?" and "when's the last time you lied during a Tom Hanks film?", that should do the trick.

Then, like a troll up a drainpipe, I'll give her the present, the tears will dry and we'll be back to listening to her favourite album - 'Beady Emma Sings Around Love'. Job's a good one.

* Lucy's dependency on using the third person in her status updates was my doing. The fact that she's the daughter of some musician, sort of makes it mandatory (like when a dinner lady fondles under your belt after you've played on the wet grass, after specifically being told "not to play on the wet grass" in that morning's assembly).

Last Week's Morning Post.

Last week, my girlfriend sat there on the sofa, hunched and wet (from sobbing) - making her look somewhat gorgeously pathetic, like a Jeffrey Dahmer mannequin. I just rubbed my knees in anticipation of the morning post. I felt like smashing her in the face, but I didn't want to blemish the giddy high in my knees. Selfishness is a soggy old nugget of human spirit - as in, it truly makes you feel alive.

Over the past seven days I've rid myself of that violently-erotic sensation, and have since bought Lucy a box of Roses to make up for it (they'd run out of Matchmakers). She's nothing like my ex, Lucy isn't. She'll always limit herself to the four pieces of "twisty deliciouses" (her words, not mine - I refer to them as "knotted-up shit-bags"...in my mind), before closing up her Gob Shop till the morning.

Back to that morning's post. I lobbed a copy of 'Heat' magazine at Lucy to get her to shut up. It worked. Amongst the slap-dashed gabble on the cover, I eyed a photograph of Steve Coogan walking down a high street. The flash from the camera's accentuated his high cheek-bones to look like some bleached-bone candle-holders. Ironic really, as I had specifically asked BabyCorp (whose package I was waiting for) to make sure our new son had "the cheek bones of 'that' Steve Coogan" (my words).

Yes, that's right, I'd ordered a baby for me and Lucy. And yes, this is why she's the hunchbag crying on my apartment floor. She says that she never wanted a baby, and that I lied to her when I said I wouldn't order it online. I don't remember anything like that. In fact, I only remember her in complete compliance with my idea. I remember, because I joked that I'd call him 'Robo Child' and say such things like "Jappy invent Robot" or "you cheeky little bolt face" to him, and Lucy had argued with me saying that it wouldn't be a 'he', but a 'she'. Lucy now sternly denies this.

So, up to this point, I think we've come to an agreement that we disagree, or something. I don't remember her arguing her point, not really, although I do remember her not coming back last Saturday night. 'Gasket Case' (her new favourite club hole) had a special all-nighter on, I think DJ Think Tank? was doing a set. He's worth staying up for.

Back, once more, to the point. So I get the baby through the post, whilst Lucy is constantly wailing down the hallway, punching herself in the stomach (I've since thought this may have been a subconscious act on her part, something to do with motherhood etc.). I couldn't bring myself to have her ruining yet another good idea of mine, so I locked myself in the bathroom. Cackling away, I got rid of the foam and tissue, to see my very own Son staring back at me. His cheekbones were beautiful.

But they'd forgot to pack the bastard batteries. Pricks.