Trauma

I'm so behind at work due to unforeseen things taking place last week that I should be doing some now, but instead I'm writing this because - ohmygod - I just spent 10 minutes queuing in Sainsbury's behind some old woman with an obscene amount of facial hair and I need to tell someone about it.

Seriously, it was EPIC. I was at times both repulsed and enthralled by it. You could've seriously plaited it big time. It would've been like a tiny viking on her top lip. It was either that or take a Gillette razor off the display and throw it on her pile of stuff. Which, bizarrely, consisted solely of mushrooms. She was there with her daughter and granddaughter, and they were just buying mushrooms. And not quality mushrooms, old mushrooms; the ones that Sainsbury's have knocked down to 20p a packet because they're about to go off big-stylee and stink out the shop. Anyway, the granddaughter kept patting the mushroom packets and alligning them perfectly on the conveyor belt like she had autism or something. It was all very strange.

And don't get me started on the fugly middle-aged hippy woman behind me who was only buying herbs and olive oil. Weirdo.

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I was so exhausted over the weekend. But for good reason - we had an *awesome* meet-up with a load of people who used to work for my company on Friday night. Some of these peeps I hadn't seen in almost four years, and it was almost like no time had passed. We all immediately slipped into making inappropriate jokes at each other's expense, and coming up with strange little in-jokes that only made sense in the moment, and looking back now aren't actually funny… that being the case, I shan't repeat them here. Especially not the three incredible new TV shows that Yaz and I devised on the tube journey up town. You had to be there.

Comics pal Graham turned up with his lovely wife Astrid, who upon seeing my grand stubbliness noted that I was, in proper Rugrats fashion, "all growed up." We used to all work together, and I was, like, seven or something at the time, so it undoubtedly surprised Astrid to see that I'd progressed from boy to man(-boy). She then followed it up with the comment that I looked like Thom Yorke from Radiohead, which isn't exactly the nicest thing that anyone's ever said to me because he's got a wonky eye and is a bit of a hippy, but she could've said I looked like a badger's arse, so all things considered I probably got off quite lightly.

Oh, and one dude who used to work for me asked me if I hated him when we worked together. How odd is that? I suppose the odd wry look sometimes gives the wrong impression, but it was never meant to. In those years we all worked together I couldn't have asked for a better group of people to have around. So, Ant, if you ever read this: you're a top fella, and it was a privilage to have you on the team.

Anyway, it was great fun, and I stayed hours longer than I'd planned to. We're going to do it again sometime; I hope it's sooner rather than later.

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So tomorrow is the last episode of The OC, and Yaz and I are going to celebrate in grand style - a takeaway Nandos at mine, followed by the final ep on E4. And I suppose if we're so traumatised by the sheer finality of it all we could flick over to E4+1 at 10 o'clock and watch it again. Think of us crying into our spicy chicken at 9pm… and 'End of The OC' consolation cards will be gratefully received at the usual address. Seriously people, this is a Hallmark holiday just waiting to happen.