I'm not kidding

I have a problem.
While watching Batman Begins on Saturday evening, I could think of lots of cool things to write, and then I forgot all about it. And I mean all. Right after telling them to the friends I was with then. They don't deserve me.
It's reached that point where I'm actually kind of dreading opening the Blogger window because I'll feel inadequate. And I'm kind of dreading having a read of you all because that'll make me feel even more inadequate.
Or maybe it's hormonal. Maybe I'm not quite dealing with the summer heat as well as I should be and that's affecting my... ability to write.
I mean, come on, Friday evening I was at the Stade de France for the IAAF Meeting, I shook hands with Marie-José Pérec, got smiled at by Stéphane Diagana, was introduced to the former Technical Manager of the French Athletics Federation (who was convinced we'd met before - those days I spent in a drunken stupor in Sydney? I knew I was missing something.), saw loads of stuff backstage because I was invited by a journalist friend (nope, sorry, can't talk), saw loads of stuff on the stadium itself (along with 74,000+ people), managed to run out of batteries for my camera (how, just how do you run out of batteries when you're going to a track & field meet? The same way you lose your ability to write, that's how.).
Surely I should be able to write something clever and witty about that, shouldn't I?
And on Saturday, I went and met up with said friend, and "met" - and blew it, my hair was so messed up - a very solid candidate for my children's paternity, and on my way home, got chatted up by a fireman. Yes ladies and gents, I got chatted up by a fireman. Well, kinda. Let me set the stage (oh, it's a miracle, I'm writing!).
You know that on the 13-14th of July, balls are organised by firemen all over France. It's our own little tradition, and I suspect that that's where the French sexy reputation stems from. Anyway. The firemen are out and about these days, trying to sell tickets for the "lottery" that's taking place during the ball at the caserne in my neighbourhood. So, Saturday, coming out of the metro, I walked into those two fine specimens (they're always in pairs) who were obviously on the prowl for girls with an "ooh firemen!" weakness, and I guess I was an easy prey.
"Hi, would you like to buy tickets for..."
"Yeah, OK." (damn, blew it again!)
"€3, or more, and you can come pick up your prize on the night."
"There you go. So are the prizes OK this year? Cause last year, I got a bottle of perfume that stank to high heaven."
"Really? I hope it's better this year then."
"Yeah, so do I. Thank you. Bon courage...!"
"Oh, er... apparently, this year, the prize is a fireman."
I kid you not. He really did say that.
"Really? I'll be there, then", was my witty reply.
Hormonal, I'm telling you.