When you're a kid, your shadow is your chum, it grows, it shrinks, you jump about it. My shadow as an adult lives a damn sight closer.
It's about two and a half feet tall an makes an odd hissing noise. It has never left my side for the past six weeks. It reassures me with it's constant presence, yet I always resent it being there.
It's my oxygen cylinder, and it's changed my life. I resent it, because it means pain is near, but I adore it, because it makes the pain bugger off, like nothing ever has done before.
I am not a huge admirer of the odious little turds that choose to make politics their chosen way of life, and over the past few days, one in particular has stuck his head above the paprapet and demanded that we yell 'cunt' in order for him to duck down.
Chris cuntarsing, I've never broken the speed limit, nor shagged a lesbian Huhne.
On Sunday, anyone who didn't shop around for an energy deal was a lazy twat, and it was fucking spiffing that these companies were making oodles of cash because it was ace and everything. Try telling that to a pensioner who neither has access to the internet, nor wouldn't know what a fixed rate online deal was if it slapped them on the arse with a wet haddock.
By today, when oddly enough, he had to stand up and give a speech to all of his Libdem closet Tory mates, he had slightly changed his choon. He, big bad Chris, was going to get proper, proper roughty toughty with those nasty boys from the energy companies, and give then what for. Oh yes he was, and everything.
What a total, unmitigated cunt the man is. I'd wish shame on him, but he probably couldn't even spell it.