Wednesday

Ugh. Feeling like I've had no more than two hours sleep thanks to this endless cough, I head to work in a fog, washed out and drained of colour like that scene in Fight Club. Mostly I feel bad for keeping K up and giving her such a bad headache - especially when it's not something I can just stop.

I start to feel slightly better after an hour or so at work and a bottle of Diet Coke. Today marks my two-year anniversary at this job - and thus two years and one week of living in London - which is something of a strange feeling. It's gone incredibly quickly and while my life's changed a lot outside of work (meeting and moving in with K, for example) I've basically been doing the same thing every day for these two years. Other than my degree, this is the longest I've ever done anything - and that was nowhere near a five-days-a-week situation.

I discuss this later with Alex - who has returned from Shrewsbury with a ton of bags as she prepares to move into her new house round the corner from us. She's not moving for a week or so, so she's leaving a few things here and staying with us until the weekend. She also comes bearing beer so that's a bonus too.

Having chatted a little and cooked some dinner, Alex and I head to the Hope & Anchor to watch Tottenham v Arsenal. Alex, a Gooner, has been missing the English pub-football experience during her few months in France so I figure this would be a good place to get suitably reacquainted. In the event it is full of lairy, thick-headed Spurs fans (and, to be honest, I've yet to meet any other kind in this sort of situation) yelling at the TV and dishing out the most banal of 'banter' to the surrounding Arsenal fans. There's nothing wrong with shouting at the TV and creating a bit of atmosphere when you're watching football, of course - it's just aggressive idiots like this screaming "you fucking cunt" at footballers doing no more than taking a throw in feels completely unnecessary and is a big part of why football has such a bad name in certain circles. The irony is the more they react to every tiny event with either whooping joy or screaming rage only shows that they know precisely fuck all about football.

After the game we have a swift half in the beer garden and wander back towards TPL, picking up some Malteasers for K on the way. At home we catch the end of the much-recommended documentary Cat Dancers, which follows the odd three-way relationship of a troupe of Siegfried & Roy style performers, two of which end up being mauled to death by the same tiger within a matter of weeks. While it's tempting to laugh at the silly choice of lifestyle and the slightly camp fantasy world the surviving member lives in, it's actually an incredibly sad and well-told story.