I hate Ally McBeal. I hate her pretentious pouting and desperate, pathetic attempts to ooze sexiness. I hate her flat, mousy hair. I even hate those mid-90's business suits. I hate how completely lost and neurotic she is. And I hate her need to turn everything into larger-than-life-drama. But... remember when she was seeing that homeless guy? How she was consumed with some kind of weird misguided desire to change his life around? That bizarre need to see something in him that wasn't there?
I was on my way home the other night from yet another night out at the Bollywood bar. I decided not to grant custody to the Lewd Old Man With The Dog. I stopped at the 24/7 petrol station and got some tea. After that I found myself at the tram stop, smoking, waiting for The Homeless Man to appear. What a saddo am I? He never showed up.
It was one of those perfect, crisp late autumn nights. I just sat there and decided to take a moment to enjoy it. It was so quiet and you could actually hear the leaves falling from the trees and dancing in the breeze. The streets were covered with a thick layer of golden leaves that just begged for a joyous run through them, sending them to fly all over. (Oh my God. I'm starting to sound like Nigella. I hate the way she waxes lyrical about "delightfully golden flecks scattered on billowy creaminess". Wow.There doesn't seem to much on TV I wouldn't hate.)
The following morning I woke up to see white everywhere. The streets were covered with the first snow. And we've turned clocks back an hour and moved to the winter time. Great. Yet another reason to get depressed over.
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