Sunday 1st January. Where’s the frigging teenager gone?

What a total waste of money those fireworks were.

For the first three and a half minutes I was totally riveted.

My rapt attention was directed at the part where it looked alarmingly like Al Queda had infiltrated the ‘Fuck-austerity-it’s-New-Year’ Firework Planning Committee, and somehow orchestrated the cunning-est ‘We’ll-Disgiuse-The-Big-Ben-Bomb-As-A-Katherine-Wheel-Guv’ demolition of a building ever.

It didn’t fall over, but I don’t think that the fat lady has entirely sung on that one yet because if UK PLC keep trying to outdo and impress the rest of the globe with its firework-tastic-ness, they’ll be forced to stuff Semtex and Nytroglycerin in there next year.

So fingers crossed for a Clock-Rocking 2012.

After Big Ben didn’t fall down, I lost interest and went to bed where I discovered Annabelle sprawled with the dog. I tried to get in next to them, but they had slipped into some weird, sleep induced rigor mortis which meant that I had to wedge some of the random limbs vertically and slide myself underneath.

Trying to sleep in the same bed with that kid is like sharing a bed with a Geko, she’s here, she’s there, she’s every-freaking-where and as a result, I didn’t really feel like sitting down to begin my million dollar best seller this morning. I also didn’t feel like walking the dog and nor have I begun my quest to find the perfect man.

I am however on a quest to find The Teenager who went out last night and has yet to return. I have repeatedly rung the Blackberry that I bought him for Christmas but he isn’t answering.

I bought the Blackberry so that I would be able to find him when he went out and mislaid the way home.

Anyway, if you see a six foot slob wandering around aimlessly with his track-suit bottoms round his arse, please send him home.

He’ll be easy to spot since experience tells me that he’ll probably be yawning, scratching his back-side and asking if he can have some of your food.