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.