Tracy the gorilla

The sunburned thighs have calmed down a little, thanks to a little aftersun, a cool bath or two and a cowload of morphine.

Legs now covered with a tartan travel rug, I'm wearing a tweed deerstalker and nursey is about to troll me round the hospital grounds while I lash out at hospital staff and flowers with a walking stick, mumbling dark thoughts under my breath. Yeah, I'm fine.

I curse the Internet and it's ability to help me waste time, though.

Examples?

For no reason, other than I just did, I found myself humming the theme tune to a tv series I remember from the mid 70's that was on Saturday mornings on ITV. Beforehand, I would just wait until out with the lads for a drink and we had all had enough to start burbling on about our particular bugbear before asking if anyone else remembered 2 blokes and a gorilla who were the first Ghost Busters I ever saw.

Now?

Now I have heard a low-fi copy of the theme, have watched the opening titles, have a pic of the threesome on my machine and am wondering how I could have gone through life without shouting the name of one of the actors in times of shock. (Try it, "Larry STORCH!" Good, eh? Almost as good as "Mongo SantaMARIA!")
Yes, I should be hoovering. No, I haven't been to the shops yet and, yes, I am logging off after this.

For a bit.