Sunday nights around my house are roast dinner nights, without fail. About 6pm I wandered downstairs to ask father if he wanted to have a sneaky glass of sherry before dinner (shut your mouth, Merciless), something of a ritual for us on a Sunday night. I walked into the computer room...not there. Lounge...not there. Dining room...not there. Turns out father wasn't feeling very well, so he was asleep in bed, and mum was making pasta for dinner instead. Fair enough.
I thought nothing more of it, and after spending an interesting and productive night on the internet (no, not pornography, you sod) I collapsed into bed at 3am, looking forward to a long and marvellous sleep. Which promptly didn't materialise, as I was woken up at 7:30am. Dad still wasn't feeling brilliant, and now Mum was feeling sick, meaning it was up to little old me to take The Ginger Prince to school. I did that, came home, felt a bit tired (not long to go in this story, don't worry) so decided to go back to bed for a few more hours kip. Next thing I knew, I was being woken up by The Ginger One, at 3:30pm. I'm not joking, either. I have no idea how he got home, but I like the thought of him being like an animal, and having a homing instinct and getting home himself. More likely father picked him up, but there you go.
Anyway, I've just watched Countdown, and typed this. It's 16:13, and I feel like the day is just starting. There's absolutely no way I'm getting to sleep tonight.
If you're still reading this, a) congratulations and b) you're mad. Have a video for your troubles - my favourite video at the moment: