10:00am Awaken to find that the day has begun and that I have missed a large portion of it.

10:02am Go back to sleep, content that the day can continue its progress without my assistance, although it has been told that if it gets confused it can wake me and request counsel on any matter.

3:16pm Awaken a second time to discover that the day has indeed progressed smoothly and without incident. Leave bed and venture downstairs to prepare breakfast.

5:32pm After a lengthy breakfast preparation and consumption period involving no less than three rather unsuccessful tiger attacks, a visit to the bank to withdraw some more money and a small, balding man named Howard constantly questioning me on the nature of reality, I retire upstairs for my afternoon nap.

8:01pm Having awoken feeling refreshed and greatly enthused by the knowledge that my dreams have granted me (Badgers are nocturnal and the colour green is an aphrodisiac) I proceed downstairs and out of the front door to greet whatever it is that life has in store for me. Today I discover that life has decided to deliver me a signed Gold Disc of the Cheeky Girls first single. Life is good to me.

10:55pm I prepare supper in the usual fashion: Egg, bean, Egg, Sausage, Pie, Egg, Bean, Bean, Bean etc. This process can often last several hours, although the final result is well worth the wait.

3:11am After a tiring day, I retire to bed, safe in the knowledge that tomorrow is, indeed, another day, reality is what reality always has been - my own private adventure playground - and that there is always a good chance of pulling a pair of matching socks out of the drawer, but only after a certain number of failed attempts, I forget exactly how many.

Thank you, that is all.

“What? What the hell do you want?”.I shouted at the door in my usual brisk manner. Someone had awoken me by banging rythmically on it. The noise reminded me of some particularly annoying MC Hammer rythym so I felt that I had to get up to find out what all the fuss was about. It was still dark outside and I had just switched on the hall light so that I could find the keys to open to door and see who was knocking. I hadn’t bothered to look at my watch to see what the time was.

There was a man standing on the other side of the door. In the pale 40 watt glow of my hallway light, I noticed that he was wearing a cheap suit. I know nothing about suits, so it puzzled me that I knew it was cheap. Still, it was apparently morning and I’m generally like that early on in the day. I know things that I shouldn’t. Generally, I dont think about it too much.

“What do you want?”, I asked the stranger. I decided that this was the time when it became appropriate to look at my watch in a startled manner. I glanced at my watch. Startled, I realised that it was 3 am. “It’s 3am”, I said.

“Would you like to purchase a subscription to our newly opened sports and fitness facility just down the road?”. He gestured at some point that, I assumed, was down the road some distance. I didnt much care to look.

“Its only £20 a month, and for you, I’ll throw in a £5 discount, as well as this free Bros CD. Its called ‘Push’ and I think you might like it”. I stared at the man for a while.

“No, no thanks. Really, this whole thing is a little strange. I dont like fitness, exercise or anything involving movement in general and I feel that your offering of a free Bros CD doesn’t do much to persuade me otherwise”.

“Are you sure?”, he said, “Its a very good album”.

“Have you ever actually listened to it?”, I queried.

“No. No I’ve not.”. He seemed defeated by this and sighed, rather sadly I thought, since he had quite a persuading manner and I’m sure I would have bought the subscription had it not been for the offer of the Bros CD. He turned and walked away. I went back to bed.

With only the slightest of fanfare from the meagre crowd of a few hundred people waiting in the damp and the cold, I was greeted as I returned to my home country and set foot off the plane with awe and respect by my fellow countrymen. “Huzzah!” They shouted, “He has returned from his voyage of discovery to impart forth words of wisdom upon us! Let us bow down before his might”. Try as I might to go anywhere inconspicuously these days, my plans for peace and tranquillity are always blighted by the insatiable desire of my adoring public to catch a glimpse of me, if only for a moment, so that they can feel that their everyday lives have been made that little bit more exciting and thrill-packed by it.

For the past week, I have been living in a remote and isolated town high up in the Pyrenees mountain range where I have been surviving on nothing more than a few grains of rice and a cup of water a day. My purpose for this journey was to rediscover my inner self and to find my peace with the world. I feel I have achieved something along these lines although, now that I have returned to the consumer driven world of everyday life, I find the lessons I have learned slipping from my mind.

I slept in a cold, stone-floored basement for the duration of my stay. Every morning, I would be forced out of my damp and squalid bed mere hours before the dawn pierced the freezing darkness with its thin, dusty rays. I would then be marched down to the stable where I would be made to clean and scrub every inch of the place with a damp pipe-cleaner. After a few hours of this rigorous and life-assuring activity, I would be allowed to breakfast on a grain of rice and a thimbleful of water. Feasting on this veritable feast, I thought about all the luxuries I enjoy back home, and how I would cope should I be forced to exist without objects such as a toaster, a microwave and my wind-up Noel Edmonds action figurine.

After breakfast, I would travel down to the local tavern where I would be made to soak up all of the previous nights spilt lager with my eyebrows and at the same time forced to come up with new and fresh plotlines for the popular Australian soap “Neighbours”, which apparently can be sold on the black market for prices upwards of half a million dollars. I, of course, would not see a single penny of this. At sunset, after a long, tiring day, I would be allowed a few minutes rest and I would be given my second grain of rice for the day. I savoured these moments, as they offered me the chance of some respite from my challenging schedule when I could be alone with my thoughts and continue working on that most unsolvable problem – how to find a use for old sandpaper.
My evenings were also a time of great inner discovery. From roughly 6pm until I was permitted to sleep at some time just after 2am, I was employed by the local cinema to watch films. But not any old films, oh no. I was forced to watch all seven Police Academy movies that had been dubbed into German. I learned a lot during this time. Mainly, I learned that Steve Guttenberg is a terrible actor and that my insistence on making funny noises every time I am out with friends is possibly not as hilarious as I have always though

Walking down the street the other day, I happened upon something rather curious. I noticed that a particular shop which I walk past on a daily basis had vanished overnight. No sign remained of it. The street was far too narrow to easily admit demolition crews and allow them to leave within a space of 24 hours without any trace of them having been there and there certainly wasnt any sign of a demolition having taken place. The shop had simply disappeared into thin air.Quite why this had happened, I took a while to ascertain as I eventually noticed that not only had it not been demolished, it had also been replaced by a worn out shack which seemed to have been there for many years. The shop in question which had vanished was actually a feminie hygiene products shop, I forget its name as I never paid much attention to it. Needless to say, I had never been inside the shop either. Suddenly I noticed, from within the shack, a curtain twitch. A pair of nervous eyes seemed to dart out from behind the fabric and eventually they noticed me standing there, staring at this small, wooden hut.

After a few minutes, a small man came out from inside the hut and, after hobbling over to where I stood, explained, in a voice that seemed youthful despite the speakers aged appearance “I’m terribly sorry, there appears to have been a malfunction”.

It turns out the holographic projector which had created the illusion of the feminine hygiene product shop had broken a few hours before. Querying why such an elaborate system was in place, the man simply replied that it gave him a certain amount of privacy. “But what about the people who try and go into the shop?” I asked. “There’s no need to worry about that” he said.

I wandered off and after a few minutes, looked back. The man had dissapeared and, to my astonishment, the shop had returned. On walking back past the shop later that day I stood outside it and looked through the window. It appeared to all intents and purposes to be a perfectly ordinary shop from my viewpoint outside. The door appeared to be open and although there was no-one inside, it seemed to be full of products pertaining to hygiene. I wandered off again after a few moments, vaguely puzzled by the whole experience.

Did it go to the toilet and never return?

Where, oh where have the last two months gone? It now appears to be January and I’ve not updated my blog even one tiny iota during that period. This is truly tragic. What possible excuses could I have for not placing myself at my desk and burping forth words for the past 8 weeks? Well, in true Howard Nebulator blogging style, I shall explain…

1) Christmas

Like a noisy child that just won’t shut up even though you’ve given him many, many things to play with including - in no specific order - pipes, insulating foam, car alarms, toxins and Play-Doh, Christmas turned up on my doorstep and demanded to be let in. Now, being a reasonable person, I had to oblige. And anyway, if I had refused, Christmas would have no doubt struck me down and stolen my hat, as it has done with countless other Christmas-deriding heathens in the past.

It’s not so much the idea of Christmas that irks me - being nice to people for a change is quite a smashing plan - more the incessant commercialism that gets force fed into my face feet first, like a mewling puppy being launched forth from a catapult. And no, I don’t see the similarities either. But anyway, shopping, more shopping and shopping seemed to be the order of the day, so I did none of that and just sat in a darkened room for roughly three weeks doing nothing but sneering at the wallpaper and occasionally venturing to the shop for teabags.

2) Skiing Holiday

This was a lot of fun. And even though it lasted but a week, it seemed to take up a lot more time. I spent the week before being hugely excited about going on a skiing holiday, and making skiing noises at every given opportunity (beep beep). I spent the week afterwards being hugely excited about having been on a skiing holiday and taking every opportunity to tell everyone about the wonderful, wonderful injuries that I sustained whilst on said holiday (I bruised my arm and sprained my thumb). I also tried snowboarding and hurt my arse a lot with the sitting and the falling over and the Oh-my-god-I-can’t-slow-down.

3) New Year

This was also fun, but I was very drunk and can’t remember a thing. Sorry. Although I did wake up, half naked up a tree with a bottle of gin to find most of the cast of Eastenders circled around the base chanting and screaming as an angry mob wielding pitchforks and torches and demanding “Vengeance”.

It was a good night, I assume.

You awaken groggily from a long sleep. For a moment you are unsure where you are then your head clears. You are in a damp cellar. To the north you see iron bars set into a thick stone wall. To the east, you see a metal chamber pot filled with daisies. To the south, you see a crazy old bearded man holding a dead finch. Your hands smell of raspberries and you have the strange feeling you’ve been here before. What do you do?

> TALK TO OLD MAN

The old man responds by jabbering away noisily in a confused and possibly ancient tongue. He hurls the dead finch at you which bounces ineffectually against your forehead

> PICK UP FINCH

You pick up the dead finch and stuff it in your pocket.

> N

You walk north a bit. You smash into a wall and break your nose. It starts to bleed mightily. What do you do now?

> USE FINCH

You use the dead finch to mop up some of the blood. The bleeding continues. What do you do now?

> USE MAN BEARD

You rip off a chunk of the man’s beard and stuff it up your nose. This stems the flow of blood. The man is angry now, and looks violent.

> CALM THE MAN WITH TALES OF THE SEA

You tell the old man tales of the sea. This seems to cause his anger to recede

> USE MAN BEARD

You rip off another chunk of the man’s beard for no reason this time. This makes the man even angrier.

> USE FINCH WITH MAN

You thrust the dead, bloodied finch at the man. It strikes him mightily upon the chin. Now he begins to fume and rage. You think he might now try and kill you

> CALM THE MAN WITH TALES OF THE SEA

It doesn’t work. He’s heard it all before

> CALM THE MAN WITH TALES OF INTRIGUE AND MYSTERY

For a moment, the man’s anger recedes and you feel safer. But then the story veers to one involving a dead finch. The man remembers what you did to him and lashes out, striking you mightily and knocking you to the ground.

> USE MAN BEARD

You rip another chunk of the man’s beard off. This time, he just stands there weeping silently to himself, his chin bleeding softly.

> USE MAN BEARD

There is no more beard to rip off the man’s face. You swipe ineffectually at his wounded face.

> S

You walk south a bit. The chamber pot full of daisies kills you. Start Again?

> HELL NO

I wish I was some sort of tribal Chieftain. The sort that wears big feather hats and dances naked around fires singing to the god of rain or fire or plastics or chicken teryaki. It would make for interesting conversation down the pub of an evening.

“So, Chieftain”, the others would begin as I and my chums gather around the bar to sup upon finest ales, “how’s life treating you?”. To this I would reply, “Very well, I thank you. I spend my days mostly naked whilst dancing round a fire singing songs of yore and telling tales so tall they would make the sky seem close. As the sun nears the horizon, I retire to my teepee, or wigwam if you will - in reality, my fourth floor flat, but lets skip the technicalities - to smoke upon the pipe of truth and to mull over the lessons that the days dancing (naked or otherwise) has laid upon me.”

These simple utterances from the mouth of one who is held in such high regard are like rays of golden sunlight upon the face of a sleeping monkey. The pleasure which is emparted unto those who listen is something fine indeed. Like vintage Merlot, or the smell of cut grass on a warm Summer’s eve, the words fill the minds of those held captivated by the Chieftain’s tales and cause joy to blossom where before there was only a vague sense of longing.

Alas, I am not a strongly worded Chieftain. I am but a mild-mannered creature who toils by day and at night can be found loitering inside the local drinking establishment, shouting coarse words at any who fall within earshot and angering the patrons whenever a feather falls from my crudely fashioned Indian head-dress into their fiercley guarded pints.