February 21st, 2010


(no subject)

I don't know. You would think I would have got the hang of this life thing now. But apparently I have not.

It could be worse. I could be sitting in a bus shelter, emanating a foul miasma of body odour and cheesy wotsits, all my possessions in a shopping trolley, drinking a Tennants Extra and meths cocktail, slurring "yer all fuckers"*. It could be raining while this is happening. Frankly, there were times this week when that would have seemed like a nice evening out.

(*There was a man like that who used to go into Finchley Tescos. Sunglasses, long black stained coat that had once been expensive, smell of Wotsits and body odour (and possibly faintly goaty hum about him) , wirebrush stubble, very grumpy and sweary, talked to someone unseen. Used to tell self it was Van Morrison. Not totally out of question: once saw Sporty Spice in Finchley Tesco!)

But no. I have a place to live. I have curtains and it only took me six months to put them up. I have felafel in the fridge, three episodes of Leverage to watch, and I don't currently want to brain anyone with a 21" iMac, which makes it better than last Wednesday or Thursday. Next week I probably won't have to work 70 hours in five days.

Upsides. That is the current focus.

Rather than talk about life, let's talk about One Day, by David Nicholls, which was the book I was hoping that Juliet, Naked would be.

The fact that at one particular point I threw it at the wall, growling you utter utter BASTARD at the author should not be seen as some sort of anti-rec. The fact is that I started it at about 8pm tonight and ended up reading and reading, until I threw it at the wall, then I got out of bed, picked it up off the floor and read it some more until it was finished. A most satisfactory reading experience.
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