Where the fuck is everything?....

It’s one of the terrible things of growing old and tired, the exasperated question of 'where the fuck is everything?' Thank feck summer is coming so I don’t have to spend about 30 minutes every morning trying to find my hat and my snood. I can some day leave the house with just a T-shirt and a jacket, or feck forbid just a T-shirt. (An aside: man, summer is nearly upon us at UEA, people are friendlier the days of ‘ass cleavage’ square are almost upon us bringing memories of Fradley ‘fratboy’ Fradley and Dr. Pepper and I scoffing some UFO boozes , stop right there! It’s more than my job’s worth etc… but there’s no harm in looking, is there?…or is there?) I had that highlighter in my hand just a minute ago, where the fuck is it? That CD I wanted to play, where the fuck is it? That DVD I burned, where the fuck is it? It doesn’t matter anyway because I can’t find the permanent marker to write ‘The New Statesman: Volume One’ on it anyway, where the fuck is everything. I haven’t found that Belladonna she-male porn DVD for months, where the fuck is it? Do you have it?
If you are an academic the question of ‘where the fuck is it’ is normally answered by ‘under that bit of paper you prick’ (you can admonish yourself for having said bit of paper in your other hand for all this time now…but where’s me flarn ) I have just been asking this question in my head: Where is my minky mac moo? Where is my minky mac moo? It is the arbitrary name I have just given to a wee wine stopper my mam gave me from Spain, he has no nose but a wee hat and eyes and a moustache. As soon as I said this (to myself), I found him under my table… hello my little bandito chum!…thank you for not letting me finish the bottle in your little outfit, minky mac moo… where is your minky mac moo? have you seen him? Is he safe? Are you sure?Don’t have nightmares, don’t worry about your narrator, he has none, his quota is filled up in real life