Pink Pink Pinkity Pink Pink Pink Pink Pink Pink. Woo.

Shame I'm so bloody knackered after a night of broken sleep. I think I nodded off in the bath for a few minutes this morning.

Here was my plan:

Get train to Manchester.
Get taxi to Travelodge.
Meet sister and her housemate there.
Get ready, little drinky, go eat somewhere, go see Pink, leave, One Drink in A Bar, hotel, sleep, leave.

Here is my sister's plan:

I get the train to Leeds.
I wait for confirmation from her about whether she can be arsed to get me from Leeds station.
In the probable likelihood she can't be arsed, get the train to Hedingley.
Be picked up by sister and housemate.
Drive to the Trafford Centre.
Be bored 'Shop'.
Drive to Travelodge.
Get ready in a minute and get taxi into Manchester.
Wander around for hours, have tea, go see Pink, leave, drag me to the horror that is Canal Street (my sister, being a lezza-cliche, cannot so much as entertain the thought of going anywhere else, despite my pleading), meet up with her obnoxious friends, 'shots', 'bad chicken', taxi, hotel, drink, maybe sleep, maybe not.

I realise I sound a grumpy old fart, but I must stress that she only turned 21 a few months ago - celebrated with a purple foam party in Magaluf - and I am 25 and a half, and living here means sleep really is a marvellously exciting thing for me these days. So I am contemplating getting a taxi back to the hotel and waiting for them, and being something of a martyr when they come in drunk and wake me up. "They can't help it. They're only young".

Pink Pink Pink.

Oh dear. Have one hour until I must leave the flat. Must cease to be naked, clean out Pepper and Sweetpea, and wash up. Hold the train, please.