Instead of telling you about what has gone before (which includes terrorists, flat hunting, falling out with friends and, finally, missing out on those Donnie Darko tickets) let’s look to the future. This weekend in fact:Take some time out
My day starts with the sound of Amber blow drying her hair at the foot of my bed. The noise is akin to a small fighter jet landing on the duvet. I am in a constant, real danger of being exploded on the tube if I believe the Evening Standard, which I don’t. I’m at the gym five times a week mercilessly pumping iron because if I am going to be exploded I want to leave behind a corpse with slightly greater muscle mass goddammit. In the evenings I edit which is basically a slow, word-based form of torture. So like Countdown
then.Learn how to see in the dark
You know when this might come in handy.Go to Hampstead Heath and sit by the pond
The parks in London are nearly all a great mystery to me, especially the ones up North (of the River). I’ve heard Hampstead Heath is beautiful so on Sunday I’m going there to swim. Hope I don’t catch typhoid.Not go to Soho Pride
I love all the gays *word* but the thought of 167,978 (at last count) prissy, muscle bound homos tottering round Soho, air kissing each other and fanning themselves with folded up flyers for Hoist, XXL and the like just ain’t doing it for me this year. Peace out though brothers, peace out.
Get a massage
Before I came back to London I promised myself I would do more to relax and unwind. You can get a massage for under a tenner, right?Floatation Tank
Who am I kidding?Catch up with a friend I haven’t seen in a while
When one friend is being rubbish, why not spend time with a satellite chum! *satellite chums dive into hedges*Pack up my things to move on Wednesday
Fingers, toes, eyes, arms, legs crossed I will have a house of my own this time next week. So begins the process of trawling through my meagre possessions to see if I really want to schlep them all to East London. Bank statements, old phone bills and an inextricable amount of pads containing the doodlings of someone who is - by the images of bird men, floating heads and trees made of knives - either clinically disturbed or some sort of doodling genius misunderstood by his peers.
Oh, and I know the moment I throw them out, I’ll remember why I really really needed them.