Straightening my tie, I headed out the front door and down my drive. Busy day today, I thought to myself. Going to get a lot done. I was wrong.
At the end of my path, just in front of the open gate, lay a banana peel. I could see it from where I had stopped in shock, about 2 metres away. I watched it carefully, waiting to see what it wanted. After a few minutes of nothingness, I hopped my fence and ran to work. However, I couldn't concentrate. Slipping out at lunch, I returned home to see if it was still there.
It was - and it wasn't alone. Flanked by two heavyset men in suits, a large, moustached man stood waiting for me.
"Good morning Mr. Smith" He offered me.
"We represent," he continued with a sweep of his hand, "this gentleman's union, of which he is a member. Our member, of which this gentleman is, informs us that you have violated his right, as a working gentleman - and member of our union - to be stepped on, by your self, for the sake of slapstick comedy."
I looked at him slowly. Frankly, I didn't see how any of this could have happened, but the man in front of me didn't look like he would take kindly to such a thing. He continued:
"We understand that in today's hectic world, there is little time to engage in dangerous and unfunny slapstick. I myself have a family, you see, and often chose to spend time with them, rather than risk injury to myself and others with an accident involving a run away piano. As such, we think leaving you with this warning will be adequate reprisal for now. We would like to bid you a good day, Mr. Smith, and I hope that should we meet again, I will not be acting in such an... official capacity.
I smiled apologetically, and watched the three men get into a 1930s-styled car. While they watched, I purposefully stepped on the banana skin, throwing myself into my pond, and emerging, moments later, with a duck perched on my head.
Frankly, I regret the whole process, but I've fought the real mob before. I don't want to become embroiled with any sort of slapstick Mafia. It sounds fun, but it isn't. It really isn't

"So, how was the funeral?"
"Well, as good as these things generally are." Max replied. His grandmother, I should inform you, had died in an accident involving a bin lorry last week.
"Except her Priest fell ill at the last moment, so we had to have a stand-in Rabbi instead. Nice man, conducted the whole thing in Hebrew though. No-one knew what was going on."
"Oh... That year your friend David taught you Yiddish didn't help then?"
Max glared at me for a moment. It was well known that David had spent a great amount of time and effort secretly teaching Max Klingon on Friday afternoons.
Since his grandmother was dead, I decided to drop the joke at Max's expense. But before I could change the subject, he began to think out loud:
"Who'd have though a bin would fall on her, let alone think another 6 would just roll off the back of the truck right after." He looked at me, "I guess you could say she paid the mortal price for the 7 deadly bins!"
I looked at him sadly, allowing him the small chuckle that followed. After all, he was in mourning, and should have been forgiven for one badly formed play on words. However, after a moment, he began to roar with laughed. This continued for several minutes.
Under the table, my homicide-suicide gun cocked itself. 'Not yet', I murmured to it.
Not yet.

I smiled to myself. After all, I had the upper hand, and a bird was singing cheerfully nearby.

(Here, I have both hooked you, gentle reader, and described my surroundings in a most
masterful manner, [and used some alliteration] as well as overusing brackets)

Behind me, my would-be pickpocket recoiled in surprise as his tried and tested pocket-picking methods failed.

"What? What is this?" He stammered, worried more in how I had outsmarted him than in the fact he had been caught.

I stood up, turning so he could see my full costume. He recoiled again, fearful of my splendor. For I was a magician, the scourge of the criminal classes. Standing tall in my frilled shirt, black cape and top hat, I addressed him thus:

"I never reveal my secrets, my good Sir!"

"But... But..." he stammered, "I never fail."

I laughed again, this time extending my arms to make my cape billow. I like to make my cape billow: It's more theatrical, and I like the way it feels when the air caresses me.
Before me, the would-be criminal mastermind had collapsed. He was getting paler, and I - being the noble hero I was - bandaged up his hand. Not being of the magical persuasion, he would never understand my magic pocket bear-trap.

Today a woman came to the door. She asked me if her ass looked big in the jeans she was wearing. I shut the door and went back to bed: I don't like religious callers.

Tonight the clocks go back.

"We'll get an extra hour!" I hear you cry. This is not something to be excited about. You'll probably spend it in bed. But I won't - I don't sleep any more. What do I need with an extra hour?
I'll probably take it back to God. Maybe he'll let me exchange it for some ski pants. Which I can sell on eBay. I'll use the money to buy cheaper ski pants, and continue the process until I either run out of money or die.

The world is dark. Every day, I get up, and it seems bright for a while. There's no food in. I stumble into the world, lost and alone, but no shops are open. Groups of people approach me, laughing and taunting me, speaking in a familiar language that I can't quite understand.
After a week, I realised I had the PM and AM settings on my watch confused, and I was going out late at night.
I thought I was alone, but everyone was in bed, or drunk.
I thought I was depressed, but I was just bad at using watches.

Today is my Birthday. They say I'm not getting younger - that I'm one day closer to the grave, and that my hips won't work forever. They say I should take it easy, maybe retire and take Sheila up on her offer to move in with the family. It sure would be nice to see my grandkids a bit more.
I'm worrying they could grow up into homosexuals. I don't know much about that sort of thing, but them gays can't wrestle an alligator like normal folk. Especially young Cain, who wears a dress that doesn't cover his knees. They say I should go sort them out.
They say a lot of things though. I don't understand most of them.
I'm getting old.

Rain fell.
Actually, it descended at more of a 30-degree angle, catching on the wind and rising under the hats of anyone foolish enough to go out. But the figure I was watching was not wearing a hat.
A sad clown is a common, yet tragic, sight. This one was particularly troubling - his large green wig was weighed down with rainwater, and his make-up had run onto his purple suit.
"Why so sad?" I called out, safe in a phone-box.
"It's wet." He replied, simply and sadly.
"And ever since that Batman film, the kids are even more scared of me than usual."
I looked at him with a level of sadness suitable for this sad scene.
"Well, you do look kinda like the Joker - I mean, your costume is really very, very similar..."
He looked down sadly. Everything was very sad. A crow landed on top of my phone-box, and the clattering panicked me momentarily.
Another moment passed, and the clown looked back at me.
"Do you live in that phone-box?" He asked.
"No." I lied, "I have a mansion. I'm just selling shares on the Internet."
He looked puzzled for a moment - the third of our tale - but seemed to let it go. After a few moments, the rain started to ease up, and I left the phone-box. I think I'll go sleep in the haunted graveyard for a few days. It's unlikely any more bad things involving ghosts will happen to me.

I took another sip of coffee. It was somewhat hotter than before, burning my tongue.
"Hmm?" Max asked.
"I said 'ouch'" I offered back, "Anyway, what's with that medallion?"
The medallion in question was a large gold affair hanging around Max's neck.
"Oh, this old thing? It's an ancient Red Indian thing, apparently. I picked it up last year, when I went on my trip."
As far as I could remember, Max had only gone to Wales, but I didn't bother to point this out. I also resisted the temptation to point out they were Native Americans as well, I'd had enough trouble explaining what he could and couldn't call midgets last Spring. I did ask this, however:
"Oh... Is it real? Or from a gift shop?"
"Nah. I dug it up, from an ancient Indian burial ground. There was a curse, apparently..."
I looked up at the darkening skies around us. I've got to stop going for coffee with Max. It always ends up with us being chased by vengeful spirits of some kind.

"You! Chauvinist pig!"
I stopped, turned, and looked at what appeared to be a cliched, radical feminist. Knowing I would regret it, I walked over to her, hoping to find out the nature of my chauvinistic, pig-like state of being.
She looked at me angrily, then, frothing at the mouth, continued:
"Vaginas... Aren't... Hats!"
I thought about this for a moment, then nodded slowly. There seemed little point in arguing - after all, she was right. No genitalia - male or female - should be used as clothing, in my opinion. With perhaps the exception of an elephant's foreskin, which makes a good boob tube...

Confound it! The weather has taken a sudden turn to the cold - in fact, it's freezing. This wouldn't be a problem normally, but this change took place just as I was licking a lamp-post. I am now stuck in the middle of nowhere, and a tramp keeps looking at me amorously.
Things are not going well...

The wrecking ball swung down, crushing the building in a rather boring fashion. I'm sorry that wasn't a very good sentence, but I'm tired. It did its job - setting the scene, letting you know what's going on, and so on - I suppose. Anyway, I digress...
The remains of the hairdressers collapsed inwards, in a slow, inevitable fashion. To be honest, I was disappointed - these things always look more dramatic on television. Waterman's Hairdressers had been on this street for as long as I could remember. I'd always get my haircuts there when I was a child, and Mr. Waterman himself would always be there. I remembered his kindly old smile, and his many words of encouragement: "You look stressed, why not pull up a seat?", he would say, before warning me about the dangers of the Welsh. 'Dragon riding wanks', he used to call them.
Of course, business had began to decline over the years, and his new marketing strategy had failed spectacularly. In hindsight, of course, we can all say that offering 'Gent's bikini waxes, female touch-ups and child grooming' was a bad idea, but I didn't see any of you try to help out.
The dust was settling now, and I'd grown bored. Come to think of it, it seemed dangerous to use a wrecking ball on a terraced street.

Apologies again for the lack of blogs recently. I have spent the last few weeks hiding in a Panda reserve, suitably disguised. At first, it was great - I played on swings, ate bamboo, and was generally adorable. However, the workers soon became suspicious of me, and I was finally discovered in the middle of encouraging the pandas to recreate Reservoir Dogs.
They aren't the best actors, I'm afraid.

The war broke out in August, I think. The leaves were starting to fall, and the rain was coming in. The nuclear missiles fired near to Christmas, wiping out most of the world's population. But we kept on going. Nothing stops the karaoke.
Between singing, we boarded up the bar, to keep out the mutants. After a few months, we began to run out of crisps, nuts, lager and beermats, and starvation set in. Mike died from a complication of the liver, so we ate him first. Two weeks later, we opened the front door to look for food. Unfortunately, the mutants forced their way in. They took the karaoke machine away. Sometimes, late at night, we can hear them: Poor renditions of power ballets, carried in by the wind. The world seems cold and lonely now. I think I shall starve, there is little else to do.