Why Am I Here?

A simple enough question, but one that has troubled mankind for some time. I'm sat here bored stiff trying to find something to interest me. My wife's asleep with a migraine, the brace of daughters are each occupying a room-with-a-telly-in watching either some dreadful drivel involving stupid people being unpleasant to each other, or cheap imported sit-coms where the only actual laughter comes from a can.

So that's the three most comfortable rooms in the house accounted for & strictly out of bounds to a mere male who would like to see something entertaining and / or improving. I could watch Pixie Lott on Buzzcocks on the I-player again, but I'll only get impure thoughts.

"Why arn't you out in the garage?" I hear you cry, well, I'm waiting on parts, niether the welding rods nor the hose have turned up yet. I could I suppose take the main bit of the exhaust off & see just how bad the situation with the side impact bars is likely to get, I could look at the throttle linkage, I could start making the airbox, as my design is more-or-less complete, but here I sit, in the smallest bedroom / office twiddling my thumbs.