I don’t like you. My mum reckons that keeping a diary will let you know about the “good old days”. I told her so many times that I’m too old for a diary, but nooo, she gave me one anyway. I’m always asking her about the days of her childhood, but I think she’s getting sick of it now. So she decided to throw you at my face as I was sitting on the toilet doing my business. So yeah, we meet while the eagle was landing and you’ve smelt my crap... Smells good doesn’t it?