I've just had a man with an indecipherable accent come to my front door trying to sell me a yellow felt-tip pen to "Help disabled adults..."

I should've retailiated with an offer of one of those endless Bic biros. At least I could've sold him a useful pen (unless you wanted to draw a really big Pac Man I suppose), and he could've helped a disabled adult (to afford to get pissed tomorrow night).

I always think I should answer the door in the most melodramatic manner possible... sod the wheelchair, I should just drag myself and lay on the floor behind the front door:

"Um, no, sorry... it's OK. My lesbian lover has just gone out to sell individual staples so social services will let me eat this week. Thanks anyway."

In other news... this time tomorrow I shall be 25. I think I'm now going to go and weep.