Tuesday

Tonight is Chelsea v Inter Milan in the Champions League. I feel bad in that for the last two nights I've spent relatively little time with K in the evening - including staying up late writing and letting her go to bed alone. No fun for anyone. But this is a big one.

Work passes mostly uneventfully - I, of course, don't change newsagents and once more mumble an affirmative answer to the shopkeeper's friendly enquiries into my wellbeing - and as it's such a nice, proper spring day we spend the majority of the day looking out of the office window longingly.

Mostly longingly; the rest of the time we look out of the office window and scowl as the racket from the adjacent theatre school wafts in through the window. Constantly. Whether it's these happy-shiny-extrovert-jazz-hands-rich-kids doing vocal warm-up exercises or howling dismal tunes from musicals, the reaction in our office is invariably "aarrgh FUCK OFF", or words to that effect. Then we see them outside, screaming and shouting, each trying to out-rah the other and running across the road to greet each other and air-kiss. I literally hate them.

I never liked drama students, especially at university. The most obnoxious group at uni was MTS (the Musical Theatre Society), a group of the most vacuous, pointless human beings you're ever likely to meet - made more insufferable by their insistence on being in a fantastic mood all the time and trying to make friends with simply everyone, presumably training for a day when anyone you meet might be the talent scout about to give you your big break, darling. Yeah, they were dicks. More often than not they were rude, dismissive and (crucially) obsessed with the sound of their own voices. Working behind the bar at the local pub where they would occasionally hold their tap-water-drinking "socials", as I did, was less than a picnic.

Anyway, after work I get on K's Wii Fit for a while to get a little exercise (as well as try to break some of her high scores) then get started on dinner before she gets home. I watch the build-up to Chelsea V Inter while cooking, then we get on the red wine during the match.

The game, the result, was a disaster. Chelsea out of the Champions League and no more excitement of the European variety for another year. I got that sick feeling in my throat when Samuel Eto'o (him again) got on the end of Sneijder's ball and poked it past Turnbull. No matter. More wine and K to cheer me up sent me to bed philosophical. Maybe red wine is more conducive than mere lager to helping one deal with the cruelty, heartbreak and general misery of football? We shall see.