Liverpool did well Wednesday night I thought. Ok, not a stunning performance but Crouch's goal was well taken and it sets up a nice quiet couple of semi-final games don't you think?
Why am I mentioning this? Well- I went down the pub with East to watch the second half and to have 'just a couple of drinks, no more 'cos I'm working at the theatre tomorrow...' and woke up the next morning with a head that, to paraphrase that great icon of philosophy Edmund Blackadder, felt like it had a Frenchman living in it. And, oddly, a left foot middle toe that felt like it might or might not be broken. Not a good condition to be in since Stu's away this week and I'm all alone in theatreland. Oh well- time to learn to swim...
I eventually stumbled back out into the light around 1.30p.m. having re-strung 9 near-identical guitars- the most that have needed re-stringing in my time there (there is, I think, 12 of them in total.) Terms like 'deja vu' and 'groundhog day' don't cover it- save for one of them (Alan's main guitar) being black they really do all look the same, especially since we work in fairly subdued light which makes the only superficial differences between the guitars are the labels Stu's put on the headstocks. At least I'd managed to take enough paracetamol to stop both my head and my foot causing me too many problems, though it didn't really do much to help the shock I felt when I saw my picture on my new i.d. card. As I limped my way along Oxford Street having completely failed in my attempt to buy myself something in the HMV sale (do these shops ever not have a sale?) I felt like I'd worked as hard as I'd ever worked, even though all I'd done was muck about with a few guitars.
Miserable old sod aren't I?