Well, it’s Saturday morning. I’m fighting fit except for a yellowish hue to the eye, a terrible festering sore on my ankle (new stilettos) and a sensation of extreme dehydration, which is ostensible in my visage in the way that my lips have turn a bright-cherry red – an odd phenomenon that has recently occurred more often as I get older and wake up after a night on the wines. It’s all easily fixed – I’ve been up for hours attempting to fix it with water and tea – second cup of the morning – I love you tea. Needless to say, I was a fright when I hauled myself out for a run this morning. You’ll be pleased to know that I managed to stay upright the whole way. The week has been littered with occasions when I’ve fallen (hilariously slapstick in hindsight, as it is always the same spot at which I tumble). It’s Islington’s fault for the uneven pavement. Or perhaps it’s Camden’s territory on that side of the road. It’s probably also the manifestation of bad technique – I don’t lift my feet very far from the pavement. I’m sure I should be springing like a gazelle.
My shredded hands are starting to clear up. As long as I stay upright for at least the next week, they’ll have healed completely. I’m sure that one of them is full of pieces of pavement and I’m on track for some more festering …
T.S. Elliott was very good at complaining about his ailments. His letters were full of exactly how he was feeling all of the time. He was afflicted in the extreme. I’m not. I’m just having a bad week and I’ve already moaned enough to my circle of friends so now I moan to you. T.S. and I are like two peas, of course.
And… I’m… done.
Now, last night was just charming. The bar is what I could describe as punk/rock fusion. It houses all types and, by the looks of it, serves tres appetizing food. The wine is cheap and there are pool tables aplenty. This is now dubbed “our local”. But what I really want to tell you is that there were Fooz ball tables! Is that how you spell it? I’d better find out, because I’ll need to google where exactly I can acquire one of these tables – that’s how excited about the new game in my life. And it really came at the most perfect time. I’d just made this decision to become one with soccer – yes, not football, soccer. I’ve had this idea that I will learn everything that there is to know about the topic, become an expert and crush all in the wake of my vast knowledge. The boys will hate me and be in awe – so sublime is the emotion that I will inspire in them.
Jade commented on the fact that I seem to be taking up a number of ironic hobbies. 2010: the year of irony. Between the blog and the soccer, she’s probably hit the nail on the head. But I do point out that I have a number of other serious hobbies to tackle this year… I’ve got to buy the Singer to run up all those unmade dresses that sit in that pile over there. And then there’s the oil painting. Easel and paints have been top of my list for a number of months. I’ve digressed.
The table. Well, these little men on the table, kicking the ball around at my will, were dressed up as rock icons. We had Kiss, Bowie, Freddie and the like. And so I said to Nick, we should have a themed table ourselves. After a moment’s mull, I suggested the great philosophers (what a loser) and began the list – Freud, Socrates, Simone de Beauvior! Ah, she’d be brilliant. She’d lay them all to waste, that fiery minx.
Now I’m thinking of Marx. Now Derrida. Brilliant. And then Nick, with his keen sense of bathos, announced that he would just paint them all up as the Liverpool team.
Chuckle.
I have my Saturday morning play list on and it’s currently playing Arcade Fire. Yes, that’s right, the list is called “Saturday morning”. Control freaks need utilitarian labels on everything. Art cannot escape the strictures of my order.
Bless me, I have to finish the “Saturday morning laundry” and do the “Saturday-morning-wiping-of-the-household-surfaces” and it’s already ten o’clock! Until anon again then…
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