I have been chewing my lip due to worry (and something to do that’s free and simple) and now resemble a heroin addict from those information films from the 1980s. I think this is a fitting way to see in 2009, by this time next year I may also be thin enough from the enforced gruel eating to actually star in one for real.
By rights, my worry lines should now be as deep as a freshly-ploughed field, but my stock of snake oil anti-ageing moisturisers remains fairly high, so I’m staving off the worst effects of eating badly, indulging in unhelpful vices and generally taking as much care of my appearance as a coma victim. By the time I run out of that lot, there’s always the polyfiller supplies in the shed to tide me over.
Having scanned the internet for money-making opportunities, I have decided that if all else fails, I shall sell a kidney. Having two is very 2008 and, after all, one should recycle as much as possible.
Only problem is that only one of my kidneys works properly, and I’m loathe to give up the good one. Perhaps I could offer the wizened one (which looks very much like something you’d find withering at the back of the fridge) at a knock-down rate. There’s a credit crunch on, you know, people are desperate.
(On this note, I am remembering that film where someone has a hand transplant and the new set of digits take on a life of their own and start murdering people and so forth. Would my kidney force its new owner to write for newspapers and magazines or expect he or she to get up at 3.45am every morning to go to the toilet, like it does me, do you think?)