Wet blanket

I’m not supposed to be here.  I’m supposed to be in a pub.

I feel I’m letting people down because I did think I would make it, but then Friday evening came along.

The weather is rubbish, I have nothing to wear, I feel fat and ugly and I have had a busy week and I’m knackered.  All of these are excuses really even though they are true because if I forced myself I could find something to wear and I could drag my sorry arse into town.

I just don’t think I’d be good company, even if I had a drink or two, or ten.

I might be amusing, but that’s not the same as good company.