Misery and Not Misery

I am driving almost 500 miles tomorrow; luckily I have a gadget to plug the iPod into the cassette deck in  my car so I'll be singing along to the blues, tacky 1980s disco, hillbilly and rockabilly, girl groups, the Daintees, Phoenix, you name it.
I very rarely fast forward but when I do it's usually the Shanghai Lounge Divas or Ivor Cutler, both of whom are OK is some settings, but akin to torture in a hot car in a traffic jam.
I meant to clear the rubbish out of the car: it resembles the council tip and I'm always expecting a knock on the door from an official telling me that the council has copyright on such squalor.
I get huge pleasure from mindlessly daydreaming about tidying it up, usually while waiting in the aforesaid traffic jams.
I did roll up the miles of luminous green garden twine today; it had wound itself round a lot of the other debris, and it was excitingly virtuous-feeling unwinding it from assorted items and putting it in a plastic bag.
Do I really need an empty screen-wash bottle?
I bet I don't, but I bet I do need miles of luminous green garden twine now I have removed it from the car.
I am taking my song-scribbling book in case I have ideas. Most of my ideas recently have been thoroughly miserable ones, which is odd because I am not thoroughly miserable.
Maybe they are a kind of insurance policy, to keep my misery muscles flexed.