Warning: this post starts off very ranty, then ends positively. But it is a babbling brook of emotions from a very angry, tired, upset comedian.
"The guinea pig thing is too crazy this week. Your body is a wreck and the weather is shite. Let's get into bed and watch Sabrina" - My mum, 9pm tonight.
At the moment I look like a cross between a zombie Janis Ian from Mean Girls and a wrecked Lola from Run Lola Run. In bed with my Dead Kennedys t-shirt, crispy red hair, cracked lips and the Thom Yorke 'Suspiria' soundtrack playing loudly. I am an absolute cliche of a quarter life crisis. If you don't believe me, after this, I am going to read some poetry.
My plan on getting Guinea Pigs after I return to good health has been keeping me afloat the last few weeks. No denying. My family think it is a barmy idea. They think I am insane. It is hard to persuade them that this is a seriously well thought out decision.
The idea of looking after two beautiful fluffy souls every day - that give me structure, don't relate to the world of my job and comedy and enforce me not to be selfish - gives me absolute joy.
I have been feeling so maternal for so long and getting animals feels like the most responsible and healthy way of releasing this emotional and hormonal longing. My whole life has always been just comedy - as I mentioned recently in Stu Goldsmith's Com Com podcast. If Witches and Warlocks can have familiars in the shapes of snakes , spiders and cats. Why can a comedian not have a familiar in the shape of two very vulnerable cute little rodents? Makes complete sense! Guinea Pigs are my patronus!
Last night the gorgeous Grant Busé built our beautiful Guinea Pig hutch (from Hamster Homes) in my bedroom and helped set it up with all the toys and accessories I had bought. It looks beautiful . I stand over looking at it like a animated barren queen standing over a crib in a very weird Grimms fairly tale.
(I am aware I look like I am about to kill you and eat your heart)