A day off work, so I thought I'd start this thing: keep a record of my life and stop all those thoughts of mine from leaving my head once and for all. I can't promise that it'll be groundbreaking stuff or at some points even interesting, but I will be keeping it updated and try to be as honest as posible.

Right: first things first. I'm about to fuck with my identity bigtime. It's contact lens shenanigans for me. Again. The first time was with Specsavers in Huddersfield, who are truly the Aldi of opticians. I think over the 35 days the 5-day trial went on for I saw 6 different dispensing opticians, all of whom seemed to have different ideas over what was an acceptable standard of vision. I just got sick of one optician changing one thing, and another changing another; when many of the changes were contradicting each other. So, I switched to a teeny weeny optician. She's a lovely woman, but I never, ever intend to swing a cat in her practice. Anyway: that's not normal behaviour, is it? I got a phone call on Saturday and (come 9 am) I'll be ringing up to arrange collection of a trial pair. I'll be keeping my thoughts on this blogged.

Jeeze, it's a white knuckle ride, this.

Now: here's the rub. Do I still call meself Sp3ccylad? Meh.

Anyhoo: I made the phone call, so it's on with the Furtive t-shirt and off into the town centre. Here goes.

In the meantime, here's a totaly unpublished-anywhere tattyslop. Enjoy.