As part of our ongoing mission to become as middle aged as possible as quickly as possible, K and I start this upsettingly hungover Saturday morning talking about our new sofa. We had planned to wait until the new year to improve our currently sub-standard sitting situation - but flicking idly through the DFS website we decide to take a ride and check out a few in the flesh. A postcode search reveals the unappetising fact that our nearest DFS store is at Brent Cross shopping centre, but we decide to go for the adventure and get the tube.
We emerge straight onto the noxious North Circular and make our way through the houses awaiting demolition, across the rickety foot bridges under the spaghetti structures of flyovers, towards the grim concrete edifice of Brent Cross. It's just a mall in the Lakeside, Bluewater style, but the place has a slightly run-down vibe about it and the pretzel-y stench of American malls I haven't smelt since trudging around one in Florida many years ago.
Undeterred, we look around John Lewis at their far-out-of-our-price-range sofas, and pop into the Apple store to ogle the improbably thin new Macbook Airs. It eventually dawns on us that DFS, being a big shop, must be in the retail park back across the main road, so we have a quick lunch in the busy food court and walk over another huge footbridge to find the seating superstore.
We find the sofa we'd had in mind and place an order for the comfy red beast - but with a seven-week delivery estimate we're going to have to contain our excitement for a while.
We head back via the tube and we're home by fiveish - just in time to have a bite to eat before walking over to Crouch End with some beers for a cheery evening in at Mike, Rick and Ellie's house. We natter away and watch bits and pieces of the classic Adam and Joe DVD - before eventually deciding to brave the outdoors and wander up to the Haringey Arms for one more drink before bed.
Thursday 28 October 2010
Friday 22nd October
So after all the ridiculous media brinksmanship, today it is announced that Wayne Rooney has signed a new five year contract and will be staying at Man United. How boring. Still, it will be interesting to see how the United fans react to him - I can imagine it being hard to know how to feel. He hasn't made a lot of friends recently.
This evening I head into town to meet K at the Cock. I exit Oxford Circus tube to the now obligatory accompaniment of Orbital's track Satan (seriously, it sounds great when you're weaving through crowds of bovine tourists) and find myself at the busy pub first. I stand outside for a while before K turns up and we catch up on each other's days before heading off again. Lloyd and Ed are at the Cro-bar near Centre Point, so we wander down Oxford Street to meet them. I have a particular loathing for this bar (too small, too loud, too expensive) but unfortunately this antipathy is shared by none of my friends. We have one drink and I moan enough that we soon move on to meet Mike at the Star and Garter in Soho.
We head upstairs and find a few other friends dotted about, so we join them for a pint or two and share stories (mostly about Mike, mostly involving unconscionable drunken ruin) and giggle for a while. It's soon time to move on once more though, so we all walk back up to Oxford Circus and hop on a packed tube towards Holloway Road, where the Big Red lies in wait.
By this point I've had my fill of drink and merriment, but we stick around anyway, talking shit and watching the amusing rock and roll kiddies go by. Eventually I manage to convince K that we should be heading for bed, so we head for the 29 (via the bakery, natch) and trundle on home.
This evening I head into town to meet K at the Cock. I exit Oxford Circus tube to the now obligatory accompaniment of Orbital's track Satan (seriously, it sounds great when you're weaving through crowds of bovine tourists) and find myself at the busy pub first. I stand outside for a while before K turns up and we catch up on each other's days before heading off again. Lloyd and Ed are at the Cro-bar near Centre Point, so we wander down Oxford Street to meet them. I have a particular loathing for this bar (too small, too loud, too expensive) but unfortunately this antipathy is shared by none of my friends. We have one drink and I moan enough that we soon move on to meet Mike at the Star and Garter in Soho.
We head upstairs and find a few other friends dotted about, so we join them for a pint or two and share stories (mostly about Mike, mostly involving unconscionable drunken ruin) and giggle for a while. It's soon time to move on once more though, so we all walk back up to Oxford Circus and hop on a packed tube towards Holloway Road, where the Big Red lies in wait.
By this point I've had my fill of drink and merriment, but we stick around anyway, talking shit and watching the amusing rock and roll kiddies go by. Eventually I manage to convince K that we should be heading for bed, so we head for the 29 (via the bakery, natch) and trundle on home.
Thursday 21st October
A horrible day at work starts early - with a shit-ton of work coming in inexcusably late from a client too important to ignore or chastise. I explain my point to the boss and get the impression that the work my department does is completely unappreciated and underestimated. Nevertheless, I grit my teeth, do some light to heavy swearing and crack on with it. A day like this comes around every so often at work (as I'm sure it does for absolutely everyone) but it makes it no more pleasurable to get through.
Another evening alone is spent watching large swathes of the latest US comedies I've been getting into, namely Community and Eastbound and Down. Community, which follows a disbarred lawyer attempting to requalify at a less-than-prestigious community college, is lots of fun and full of some very tight comedy writing - even though at times it wallows in the sort of pop culture reference-based humour that shows like Spaced made famous ten years ago. It does have that nice 23-minute 30 Rock appeal about it though, so I manage to watch seven or eight episodes around and beyond dinner. Eastbound and Down is about an egotistical former pro baseball player reduced to teaching gym at his old high school, and mixes HBO swearing, Will Ferrell-style "arrogant idiot" comedy and King of the Hill-style gritty Americana. It's pretty bleak in places but there are some brilliant lines here and there. I hope both of them make it to British TV soon.
Another evening alone is spent watching large swathes of the latest US comedies I've been getting into, namely Community and Eastbound and Down. Community, which follows a disbarred lawyer attempting to requalify at a less-than-prestigious community college, is lots of fun and full of some very tight comedy writing - even though at times it wallows in the sort of pop culture reference-based humour that shows like Spaced made famous ten years ago. It does have that nice 23-minute 30 Rock appeal about it though, so I manage to watch seven or eight episodes around and beyond dinner. Eastbound and Down is about an egotistical former pro baseball player reduced to teaching gym at his old high school, and mixes HBO swearing, Will Ferrell-style "arrogant idiot" comedy and King of the Hill-style gritty Americana. It's pretty bleak in places but there are some brilliant lines here and there. I hope both of them make it to British TV soon.
Wednesday 20th October
The Rooney story develops a little more today, with the player himself confirming that he does in fact intend to leave, citing United's lack of ambition as a reason. It's already starting to sound more like angling for an improved contract - but there's a definite sense that he's burning an awful lot of bridges here.
K is swimming tonight so I have another early-part-of-the-evening session spent in front of the telly and the laptop. Spurs are playing Inter at the San Siro, on ITV, so I stick this on in the background. Not planning to pay the game much attention, it soon grabs me as Tottenham find themselves 3-0, and a goalkeeper, down after only 15 minutes. This looks like being Spurs' rude, proper welcome to the Champions League - especially when the hosts make it 4-0 before half time. Properly dominated and out of their depth, not to mention down to ten men, the game looks like heading for a record thumping.
As it happens, though, Inter fail to score again - and in the final half an hour a heroic solo performance from Gareth Bale sees Spurs pull the score back to 4-3. A flattering scoreline, in terms of the abject first half display, but a thrilling end to a very enjoyable game.
I also watch the new series of Never Mind the Buzzcocks out of the corner of my eye - this week guest hosted by Mark Ronson, the transatlantic supposed "genius" music producer. The man has literally no charisma and the sight of him attempting to read jokes off an autocue is grating. I wouldn't mind if the music he produced was anything other than charmless, pretentious bollocks.
K is swimming tonight so I have another early-part-of-the-evening session spent in front of the telly and the laptop. Spurs are playing Inter at the San Siro, on ITV, so I stick this on in the background. Not planning to pay the game much attention, it soon grabs me as Tottenham find themselves 3-0, and a goalkeeper, down after only 15 minutes. This looks like being Spurs' rude, proper welcome to the Champions League - especially when the hosts make it 4-0 before half time. Properly dominated and out of their depth, not to mention down to ten men, the game looks like heading for a record thumping.
As it happens, though, Inter fail to score again - and in the final half an hour a heroic solo performance from Gareth Bale sees Spurs pull the score back to 4-3. A flattering scoreline, in terms of the abject first half display, but a thrilling end to a very enjoyable game.
I also watch the new series of Never Mind the Buzzcocks out of the corner of my eye - this week guest hosted by Mark Ronson, the transatlantic supposed "genius" music producer. The man has literally no charisma and the sight of him attempting to read jokes off an autocue is grating. I wouldn't mind if the music he produced was anything other than charmless, pretentious bollocks.
Tuesday 19th October
Alex Ferguson goes on TV and confirms the rumours that have been bouncing around for a while - that Wayne Rooney has refused to sign a new contract at Manchester United and that he wants to leave the club. It's big and fairly unbelievable news (in that he's always seemed like the sort of player who would stick around at United forever), but I allow myself to briefly fantasise about a player of his undoubted quality moving to Chelsea - if only because he would fit in rather well with Stamford Bridge's collection of assorted love rats and reprehensible scumbags. I won't be ordering the Rooney 10 shirt quite yet though.
Sticking with football, after work I head straight to the World's End to meet Alex and catch the end of the Spartak Moscow v Chelsea game which kicked off early. The pub is rammed with Emirates ticket holders getting boozed up before heading down the road to see Arsenal take on Shakhtar Donetsk, and more impressively there's a healthy contingent of orange-clad Ukrainian away fans making plenty of friendly noise in one corner. Around half an hour before kick-off, though, the pub empties out and Alex and I are able to grab a very comfy sofa in front of the big screen. There's an almost-full bottle of vodka under the table which the away fans have clearly been doing shots from, but we keep clear and stick to the lighter ales.
Arsenal win easily, running out 5-1 winners, and we stick around in the pub to watch the fans stream back in. We get talking to an effervescent Zambian man called Calvin, who insists on buying us a drink and talks loudly about his love of Liverpool FC and filmmaking. He's entertaining, but in that wearying "pub nutter" way where you realise that he's never actually going to go away. Alex and I finally make our excuses and head for the tube station, whereupon he follows us all the way to the platform, finally asking for our phone numbers. I'm a little ashamed to give him a fake number - but it gets rid of him and we're able to take the short journey back to TPL unmolested.
Sticking with football, after work I head straight to the World's End to meet Alex and catch the end of the Spartak Moscow v Chelsea game which kicked off early. The pub is rammed with Emirates ticket holders getting boozed up before heading down the road to see Arsenal take on Shakhtar Donetsk, and more impressively there's a healthy contingent of orange-clad Ukrainian away fans making plenty of friendly noise in one corner. Around half an hour before kick-off, though, the pub empties out and Alex and I are able to grab a very comfy sofa in front of the big screen. There's an almost-full bottle of vodka under the table which the away fans have clearly been doing shots from, but we keep clear and stick to the lighter ales.
Arsenal win easily, running out 5-1 winners, and we stick around in the pub to watch the fans stream back in. We get talking to an effervescent Zambian man called Calvin, who insists on buying us a drink and talks loudly about his love of Liverpool FC and filmmaking. He's entertaining, but in that wearying "pub nutter" way where you realise that he's never actually going to go away. Alex and I finally make our excuses and head for the tube station, whereupon he follows us all the way to the platform, finally asking for our phone numbers. I'm a little ashamed to give him a fake number - but it gets rid of him and we're able to take the short journey back to TPL unmolested.
Monday 18th October
I see the kids off in the morning and head to work. There's plenty to do as ever, but in a way it's nice to be getting on with getting things done. In the evening I find myself alone, as K is out at her dressmaking course again. I make a little dinner and plonk myself down in front of the television (as is my wont these days) and do a little catching up on the blog.
At eight University Challenge comes on and I busy myself with attempting to hit ten correct answers during the show. Amazingly I manage to get the first three in a row right (I don't remember all of them, but one was about Benjamin Zephaniah turning down a knighthood). On a roll now, I score a barely believable 20 correct answers during the half hour - something I'm sure no one contestant on there actually managed. If only I'd been in any way involved in academic student life during my time at Royal Holloway maybe I could have competed. Having said that, I don't think that a Media Arts student could have got anywhere near that team no matter how clearly genius-level his trivia-based intellect was.
Dad calls up afterwards and I regale him with stories of my televisual academic accomplishments. He is satisfyingly impressed.
At eight University Challenge comes on and I busy myself with attempting to hit ten correct answers during the show. Amazingly I manage to get the first three in a row right (I don't remember all of them, but one was about Benjamin Zephaniah turning down a knighthood). On a roll now, I score a barely believable 20 correct answers during the half hour - something I'm sure no one contestant on there actually managed. If only I'd been in any way involved in academic student life during my time at Royal Holloway maybe I could have competed. Having said that, I don't think that a Media Arts student could have got anywhere near that team no matter how clearly genius-level his trivia-based intellect was.
Dad calls up afterwards and I regale him with stories of my televisual academic accomplishments. He is satisfyingly impressed.
Wednesday 27 October 2010
Sunday 17th October
We head back out in the morning to meet up with Jim and Steph again - this time at Sloane Square tube to go for a wander round the Saatchi Gallery. Neither K or I have been for a while so it's nice to have an excuse to make the kinda-out-of-the-way journey. Today is the last day of part one of the Newspeak show, and there are the usual range of impressive to uninspiring pieces throughout. By far the most exciting is a stack of 300 domestic stereo speakers in the corner of a large room, playing the distorted sound of a slowed-down pianola and computer-tweaked ambient noises. It makes for a haunting, unsettling installation that is at the same time peaceful and really quite wonderful. We walk around the speakers, careful not to knock anything, unsure of where the next sound will come from.
After the Saatchi we head to Waterloo to catch another free exhibition, Hell's Half Acre, a show put on by the Lazarides gallery in the tunnels under the station. We've pre-booked our tickets so after getting slightly lost looking for the well-hidden entrance we eventually arrive just after 1.30. The exhibition is in a series of darkened tunnels, each of the pieces dealing with the idea of hell, specifically that described in Dante's Inferno. The space is far more interesting than the work - atmospheric and creepy, dilapidated and with a very seedy vibe about it.
After leaving Waterloo we head back up north so that Jim and Steph can dump their heavy backpacks at our house. When we've all rested up a bit and K and I have got dinner for later on the go, we make our way out for a walk around Ally Pally and down through Crouch End. It's a beautiful day and our view is clear across the city. As usual I have fun pointing out the landmarks to our guests.
We have a quick couple of pints at the Queens before heading home with some wine to drink with dinner. We eat K's delicious home made lasagne and watch The X-Factor before playing a bit of Scrabble. Despite the copious amounts of wine it's a very civilised Sunday night in, and when I head to bed later (but, like last night, relatively early) I quickly fall into a contented slumber.
After the Saatchi we head to Waterloo to catch another free exhibition, Hell's Half Acre, a show put on by the Lazarides gallery in the tunnels under the station. We've pre-booked our tickets so after getting slightly lost looking for the well-hidden entrance we eventually arrive just after 1.30. The exhibition is in a series of darkened tunnels, each of the pieces dealing with the idea of hell, specifically that described in Dante's Inferno. The space is far more interesting than the work - atmospheric and creepy, dilapidated and with a very seedy vibe about it.
After leaving Waterloo we head back up north so that Jim and Steph can dump their heavy backpacks at our house. When we've all rested up a bit and K and I have got dinner for later on the go, we make our way out for a walk around Ally Pally and down through Crouch End. It's a beautiful day and our view is clear across the city. As usual I have fun pointing out the landmarks to our guests.
We have a quick couple of pints at the Queens before heading home with some wine to drink with dinner. We eat K's delicious home made lasagne and watch The X-Factor before playing a bit of Scrabble. Despite the copious amounts of wine it's a very civilised Sunday night in, and when I head to bed later (but, like last night, relatively early) I quickly fall into a contented slumber.
Saturday 16th October
Jim and Steph are in town today, so after spending the morning dithering about a bit (but mostly, as ever, enjoying the fact that it is Saturday) and taking delivery of our second online Sainsbury's shop, we head to the tube to go and meet up with them. They've spent the morning doing the Science Museum in true tourist fashion, so we go to South Kensington to meet them for the obligatory Natural History Museum leg of their touristy weekend.
We meet them at around two. The museum is very busy so we're instructed to the side entrance, meaning no queue and an unusual starting point up the large escalator towards the more serious, less essentially dinosaur-based exhibitions. No problem here, especially as we're soon at the rather brilliant Kobe earthquake simulator I loved so much when I was a kid. I suppose it's a bit crap by the standards of interactive exhibits built since, but I remember vividly how exciting it was when that floor started moving when I was 10 years old.
We brave the crowds for the inevitable dinosaur section (which is fun, but how ridiculous that the most popular attraction in such a fascinating museum is an animatronic dinosaur - one of the only artificial things in the entire place) and duly shuffle through. By this point it's almost five, and K and I have arranged to meet some folks at the Green Man while Jim and Steph go to catch a show.
We get the tube as far as Holborn and walk up to the Green Man, where we order a cider and a burger as the others arrive. We're not around for long though - that cider is vicious stuff - and we head home at a rather less than rock n roll 9pm. I'm not too fussed as we're home well in time for Match of the Day and K and I crack on with the Jack Daniel's she brought home from the States the other week. She heads to bed during the duller, later games on the bill and I promptly nod off on the sofa, eventually hauling myself to bed just after 1am.
We meet them at around two. The museum is very busy so we're instructed to the side entrance, meaning no queue and an unusual starting point up the large escalator towards the more serious, less essentially dinosaur-based exhibitions. No problem here, especially as we're soon at the rather brilliant Kobe earthquake simulator I loved so much when I was a kid. I suppose it's a bit crap by the standards of interactive exhibits built since, but I remember vividly how exciting it was when that floor started moving when I was 10 years old.
We brave the crowds for the inevitable dinosaur section (which is fun, but how ridiculous that the most popular attraction in such a fascinating museum is an animatronic dinosaur - one of the only artificial things in the entire place) and duly shuffle through. By this point it's almost five, and K and I have arranged to meet some folks at the Green Man while Jim and Steph go to catch a show.
We get the tube as far as Holborn and walk up to the Green Man, where we order a cider and a burger as the others arrive. We're not around for long though - that cider is vicious stuff - and we head home at a rather less than rock n roll 9pm. I'm not too fussed as we're home well in time for Match of the Day and K and I crack on with the Jack Daniel's she brought home from the States the other week. She heads to bed during the duller, later games on the bill and I promptly nod off on the sofa, eventually hauling myself to bed just after 1am.
Thursday 21 October 2010
Friday 15th October
Since my little brother Jim and his girlfriend are going to be visiting this weekend and we've got a night out planned tomorrow, tonight is to be a nice, sensible night in. Needless to say, being Friday, I make sure to pick up a couple of bottles of red on the way home and some accessories (samosas, bhajis) to go with the tasty curry K is planning to sort out for us. We eat dinner and crack open the first bottle, enjoying that peculiarly Friday feeling of having the longest possible time left until we really have to do anything at all. It's magical.
After dinner we wander through to the living room with a vague plan to watch a movie, and I stick on Mulholland Drive, having got it free with The Observer a couple of weeks ago. I wouldn't claim to be the biggest fan of David Lynch (having had his films expertly runied for me at university by tortured Freudian readings - though I'll admit Lost Highway is a very good movie) and these days I'll usually balk at the idea of sticking on a film longer than two hours (two hours plus = bad editing with few exceptions) as they have a habit of eating entire evenings, but K seems up for checking this one out. As it turns out, it does feel long - and it revels in its Lynchian puzzle-movie status. I read up later that it was originally planned (and even parts of it shot) as a TV series, and the ending added later on - and while this shows it sits nicely as a series of creepy vignettes. The early scene involving the man in the cafe describing his spooky dream is incredibly well done and one of those uncanny horror-scenes that stays with me long after.
When the film is done we're both knackered and full of wine, so we watch some slightly lighter telly for a while before shuffling off to bed.
After dinner we wander through to the living room with a vague plan to watch a movie, and I stick on Mulholland Drive, having got it free with The Observer a couple of weeks ago. I wouldn't claim to be the biggest fan of David Lynch (having had his films expertly runied for me at university by tortured Freudian readings - though I'll admit Lost Highway is a very good movie) and these days I'll usually balk at the idea of sticking on a film longer than two hours (two hours plus = bad editing with few exceptions) as they have a habit of eating entire evenings, but K seems up for checking this one out. As it turns out, it does feel long - and it revels in its Lynchian puzzle-movie status. I read up later that it was originally planned (and even parts of it shot) as a TV series, and the ending added later on - and while this shows it sits nicely as a series of creepy vignettes. The early scene involving the man in the cafe describing his spooky dream is incredibly well done and one of those uncanny horror-scenes that stays with me long after.
When the film is done we're both knackered and full of wine, so we watch some slightly lighter telly for a while before shuffling off to bed.
Wednesday 20 October 2010
Thursday 14th October
Tonight I'm off to see MF Doom (or 'DOOM' these days) at Brixton Academy. I spend most of the day excited - Born Like This was easily my favourite album of 2009 and, from what I've heard from my little brother who went to see Doom in Manchester last night, he's going to be putting on a cool show.
After work I pop home for a quick bite to eat, snaffling last night's leftovers, before jumping on the tube to Brixton. While Brixton always seems like a long way away, into deepest South London, it's easy to forget how quick the Victoria line is - and I'm there by 7pm. I meet up with Tim, who has my ticket, and we head into a nearby Wetherspoon's for a couple of pre-gig drinks. I had planned to meet up with Jess before heading in, but she is round the corner with a few of her friends so in the end we decide to stay put and meet up inside. Doom's not due on stage until 10pm, so we take it easy and take advantage of the vast difference in drink prices between the gig venue and this dubiously-populated Brixton pub.
We eventually wander over to the Academy at around 9 - a place I haven't been to for a long long time but the scene of one of my favourite gig memories, when I saw Deftones play here in June 2000 at the tender age of 15 - where some guy from The XX is warming up with a pleasant-enough DJ set. We get a drink and wander around looking for Jess, whom we eventually find and take the piss out of The Herbalizer with before Doom is finally due on stage.
The big screen behind the stage shows a 1-hour timer on the screen of an iPhone (so at least we know how long the show's going to be) and Doom takes the stage in his trademark metal mask. Instantly, though, something is wrong. The vocal is far too loud - to the point where Doom's words (that which set him apart from probably every other rapper out there) are completely unintelligible. The music is way too low, meaning that all I can hear is bass and it takes a good minute to even work out I'm hearing a song I know. I'm not the only person who is annoyed by this - hardly anyone around us can quite believe how awful the whole thing sounds. It's like listening to a Doom album through someone's bedroom wall. I try putting my fingers in my ears for a while, which helps a bit, but in the end Tim and I decide to leave early. It's crushingly disappointing (and we're not alone), and for the really rather expensive ticket it's nothing short of scandalous work by the venue. I'm sure Doom would have been great tonight - but Brixton let him down. I won't be going there again any time soon.
After work I pop home for a quick bite to eat, snaffling last night's leftovers, before jumping on the tube to Brixton. While Brixton always seems like a long way away, into deepest South London, it's easy to forget how quick the Victoria line is - and I'm there by 7pm. I meet up with Tim, who has my ticket, and we head into a nearby Wetherspoon's for a couple of pre-gig drinks. I had planned to meet up with Jess before heading in, but she is round the corner with a few of her friends so in the end we decide to stay put and meet up inside. Doom's not due on stage until 10pm, so we take it easy and take advantage of the vast difference in drink prices between the gig venue and this dubiously-populated Brixton pub.
We eventually wander over to the Academy at around 9 - a place I haven't been to for a long long time but the scene of one of my favourite gig memories, when I saw Deftones play here in June 2000 at the tender age of 15 - where some guy from The XX is warming up with a pleasant-enough DJ set. We get a drink and wander around looking for Jess, whom we eventually find and take the piss out of The Herbalizer with before Doom is finally due on stage.
The big screen behind the stage shows a 1-hour timer on the screen of an iPhone (so at least we know how long the show's going to be) and Doom takes the stage in his trademark metal mask. Instantly, though, something is wrong. The vocal is far too loud - to the point where Doom's words (that which set him apart from probably every other rapper out there) are completely unintelligible. The music is way too low, meaning that all I can hear is bass and it takes a good minute to even work out I'm hearing a song I know. I'm not the only person who is annoyed by this - hardly anyone around us can quite believe how awful the whole thing sounds. It's like listening to a Doom album through someone's bedroom wall. I try putting my fingers in my ears for a while, which helps a bit, but in the end Tim and I decide to leave early. It's crushingly disappointing (and we're not alone), and for the really rather expensive ticket it's nothing short of scandalous work by the venue. I'm sure Doom would have been great tonight - but Brixton let him down. I won't be going there again any time soon.
Wednesday 13th October
The plan last night had been to stay up and watch the Chilean miners being rescued from their underground hell of the last 68 days - especially when BBC News cut to a Special on BBC1 (it's always very exciting when they do this; though recent times have been less than entirely spectacular what with David Cameron taking office and the death of Michael Jackson). However, rolling news fiends like myself were disappointed when Chilean officials revealed that the rescue attempt wouldn't begin until way after midnight UK time, and that we probably wouldn't see the first man out of the hole until 3am or so. Disappointed, K and I gave up and went to bed.
This morning, though, we have the pleasantly unusual experience of waking up and flicking the digital radio by my side of the bed onto Radio 5Live (as is our AM custom) to an overwhelming swell of good news as the miners emerge, one per hour - wearing specially-provdided $400 Oakley shades no less. I bet they didn't think they'd come out wearing those when they went to work back in August. Nor would they be fighting over a signed David Villa Barcelona shirt, for that matter. More of them emerge throughout the day and there is definitely a strange positive vibe about the place. The bad news will be back on the agenda tomorrow, no doubt - but today is one of those weird, globe-uniting news days when we can happily marvel at the ingenuity of human beings when a crisis is at hand. Now we just have to wait for the inevitable Apollo 13-style film. My early money is on Gael Garcia Bernal being in there somewhere.
This morning, though, we have the pleasantly unusual experience of waking up and flicking the digital radio by my side of the bed onto Radio 5Live (as is our AM custom) to an overwhelming swell of good news as the miners emerge, one per hour - wearing specially-provdided $400 Oakley shades no less. I bet they didn't think they'd come out wearing those when they went to work back in August. Nor would they be fighting over a signed David Villa Barcelona shirt, for that matter. More of them emerge throughout the day and there is definitely a strange positive vibe about the place. The bad news will be back on the agenda tomorrow, no doubt - but today is one of those weird, globe-uniting news days when we can happily marvel at the ingenuity of human beings when a crisis is at hand. Now we just have to wait for the inevitable Apollo 13-style film. My early money is on Gael Garcia Bernal being in there somewhere.
Wednesday 13 October 2010
Tuesday 12th October
Some people just seem to revel in going out of their way to make my life more difficult. What with trips away and various other commitments, the regular Tuesday night swim has largely gone for a burton in recent weeks; which is a shame as I was starting to really enjoy it and feel that I was maybe getting somewhere. Now, though, the thoughtful folk at Haringey Council have decided to initiate something called HBSC - which is, rather than a misspelt Far Eastern banking corporation, some sort of special swimming club.
This "club" now takes up lanes at Park Road swimming pool every single evening of the week, cutting down the normal lane swimming even more than normal. As was made clear to K and I last time we tried to go, the pool is very popular in the evenings with regular lane swimmers - so of course it makes perfect sense to restrict that further and to put more bloody lessons in. Even more frustrating is the fact that the only evening devoted to lane swimming is Wednesday, which is women's only night. I appreciate that women's only night is probably a good thing to put on, but it raises one tiny question: when the staggering fuck are men supposed to go swimming?
But alas, Haringey won't help me there. So I either don't go, or go when the pool is rammed full of kids taking lessons, adults taking lessons, or (at the weekend) kids and families pissing about. Or I stand outside on a Wednesday night with a placard protesting Haringey Council's policy of gender inequality. None are really good options, are they?
Nevertheless, I decide to try and go for a swim this evening. The day at work hasn't been particularly enjoyable, with far too much to do and far too many cooks spoiling an, at best, average broth on one especially troublesome front. As such, I'm really, really hoping that swimming goes OK. I walk up to the pool straight from work and pay my £3.80 for one adult swim. On getting into the pool area, my worst fears are confirmed. The pool is divided up into five lanes, the outer two of which are being used for children's lessons, while one of the middle three is this HBSC club. I climb down into one of the middle two, which are about one-and-a-half swimming people wide, and start doing my usual 30 lengths.
Things aren't too bad, until I'm forced into the fast lane by people standing at either end doing nothing, which contains a girl wearing flippers (for fuck's sake) and Mr Johnny Big Bollocks aggressively overtaking everyone daring to swim at their own pace. Needless to say, this is not the most relaxing bit of exercise I've ever taken - and by the time I decide to finally give up I've got a pounding headache just from anger. Going for a simple swim after work really shouldn't be this horrific, should it?
I get dried and head home, where lovely K is making a delicious dinner. I explain my horrible, frustrating day to her and she sympathises (though she's OK, she still has ladies' night!) while we watch the penultimate episode of Mad Men.
This "club" now takes up lanes at Park Road swimming pool every single evening of the week, cutting down the normal lane swimming even more than normal. As was made clear to K and I last time we tried to go, the pool is very popular in the evenings with regular lane swimmers - so of course it makes perfect sense to restrict that further and to put more bloody lessons in. Even more frustrating is the fact that the only evening devoted to lane swimming is Wednesday, which is women's only night. I appreciate that women's only night is probably a good thing to put on, but it raises one tiny question: when the staggering fuck are men supposed to go swimming?
But alas, Haringey won't help me there. So I either don't go, or go when the pool is rammed full of kids taking lessons, adults taking lessons, or (at the weekend) kids and families pissing about. Or I stand outside on a Wednesday night with a placard protesting Haringey Council's policy of gender inequality. None are really good options, are they?
Nevertheless, I decide to try and go for a swim this evening. The day at work hasn't been particularly enjoyable, with far too much to do and far too many cooks spoiling an, at best, average broth on one especially troublesome front. As such, I'm really, really hoping that swimming goes OK. I walk up to the pool straight from work and pay my £3.80 for one adult swim. On getting into the pool area, my worst fears are confirmed. The pool is divided up into five lanes, the outer two of which are being used for children's lessons, while one of the middle three is this HBSC club. I climb down into one of the middle two, which are about one-and-a-half swimming people wide, and start doing my usual 30 lengths.
Things aren't too bad, until I'm forced into the fast lane by people standing at either end doing nothing, which contains a girl wearing flippers (for fuck's sake) and Mr Johnny Big Bollocks aggressively overtaking everyone daring to swim at their own pace. Needless to say, this is not the most relaxing bit of exercise I've ever taken - and by the time I decide to finally give up I've got a pounding headache just from anger. Going for a simple swim after work really shouldn't be this horrific, should it?
I get dried and head home, where lovely K is making a delicious dinner. I explain my horrible, frustrating day to her and she sympathises (though she's OK, she still has ladies' night!) while we watch the penultimate episode of Mad Men.
Tuesday 12 October 2010
Monday 11th October
Tonight, potentially, marks the beginning of a new era in terms of our weekly Big Shop. Exciting, I know. Regular readers will no doubt know and be fascinated by the fact that we tend to amble down to Harringay Sainsbury's most weekends to stock up on tasty goods to see us through the week. This weekend, though - given that we'd be spending the majority of it in Dorset, we decided to try out shopping online. It makes sense really; we do almost everything else online and we're certainly no strangers to internet shopping, plus I figure that the amount we spend on delivery is saved by avoiding impulse buys and unnecessary BOGOF type offers. As it was we basically bought the usual - K seemingly having lots of fun clicking through the virtual shelves and arranging delivery for tonight.
I'm home in time to meet the delivery man - who expresses his own surprise that nothing has been exchanged for what we ordered ("this almost never happens", he assures me - hardly filling me with confidence for ordering online regularly). I unpack the shopping and sort out an unnecessarily spicy pizza for dinner, as K is out at her dressmaking course. The evening's TV is not particularly inspiring, but I make sure to watch University Challenge, setting myself the usual goal of getting ten answers right - which I achieve (but, it must be said, the round spent identifying songs from the Trainspotting soundtrack is a bit of a gift). I also watch Only Connect on BBC4, but on that one I barely understand the questions. Still, there's the lovely Victoria Coren to ease my bafflement.
I'm home in time to meet the delivery man - who expresses his own surprise that nothing has been exchanged for what we ordered ("this almost never happens", he assures me - hardly filling me with confidence for ordering online regularly). I unpack the shopping and sort out an unnecessarily spicy pizza for dinner, as K is out at her dressmaking course. The evening's TV is not particularly inspiring, but I make sure to watch University Challenge, setting myself the usual goal of getting ten answers right - which I achieve (but, it must be said, the round spent identifying songs from the Trainspotting soundtrack is a bit of a gift). I also watch Only Connect on BBC4, but on that one I barely understand the questions. Still, there's the lovely Victoria Coren to ease my bafflement.
Monday 11 October 2010
Sunday 10th October
Today is 10/10/10 - an aesthetically pleasing if not immediately significant date in history. It is, however, Jess's 30th birthday (10 + 10 + 10 = 30, yeah?), whose birthday party I plan to get home from Dorset for tonight. We get up late, though, and start the day by taking the dog (Pickle) for a walk in the pleasant sunshine. As soon as we get back, K gets started on making the roast dinner while I carry on watching some of the Commonwealth Games coverage on TV. It's a strangely mesmeric and slightly soporific watch, the bizarre mix of sports - moving from table tennis to synchronised diving, athletics and boxing - all kind of blurring together and making it hard to tear oneself away from. Hunger calls, though, and soon we're tucking into a rather lovely bit of beef with K's special homemade roast potatoes.
After lunch it's time to get the train back to London - which starts off pleasantly enough. Annoyingly, though, a guy gets on with his girlfriend and proceeds to play a game on his iPhone which makes the most regular, obnoxious and loud noise I've ever heard from a mobile game - certainly in public. I have my headphones, at least, meaning that I can't really justify asking him to turn it down, but it infuriates me that none of the other people around, who are clearly irritated, bother to say anything. He's not particularly scary looking either (unlike most people who use their phones to make anti-social noise on public transport) - and I'm instantly thrown into an unshakeable bad mood over the general rudeness of dickheadish people.
My mood doesn't improve when the train is forced to stop for half an hour to allow engineering works to finish up. The train's late arrival into Waterloo coupled with the ongoing tube closures in north London makes the chances of actually getting to Jess's party in Hackney pretty remote - so I reluctantly text my apologies and have an evening sipping beer and watching The X-Factor ahead of me. K heads out to a gig in Camden and I content myself with a gaudy talent show, alone.
After lunch it's time to get the train back to London - which starts off pleasantly enough. Annoyingly, though, a guy gets on with his girlfriend and proceeds to play a game on his iPhone which makes the most regular, obnoxious and loud noise I've ever heard from a mobile game - certainly in public. I have my headphones, at least, meaning that I can't really justify asking him to turn it down, but it infuriates me that none of the other people around, who are clearly irritated, bother to say anything. He's not particularly scary looking either (unlike most people who use their phones to make anti-social noise on public transport) - and I'm instantly thrown into an unshakeable bad mood over the general rudeness of dickheadish people.
My mood doesn't improve when the train is forced to stop for half an hour to allow engineering works to finish up. The train's late arrival into Waterloo coupled with the ongoing tube closures in north London makes the chances of actually getting to Jess's party in Hackney pretty remote - so I reluctantly text my apologies and have an evening sipping beer and watching The X-Factor ahead of me. K heads out to a gig in Camden and I content myself with a gaudy talent show, alone.
Saturday 9th October
We sleep in surprisingly late, and while K heads off to Wood Green to try and find a late birthday present for her dad, I do the washing up and potter about getting ready to head to Dorset. Annoyingly, both the Piccadilly and Victoria Lines are closed any further north than Kings Cross, so we are forced to get the overground towards Waterloo. Luckily Hornsey station is only a short walk away, so we wander over there at around 11am. We get the train to Kings Cross before switching to the Victoria Line and the Bakerloo Line, eventually ending up at Waterloo with a little time to spare before the 12.20 to Gillingham. We eat a bit of M&S lunchware on the way, while I do a little writing but mostly carry on reading The Fry Chronicles on the Kindle.
We get to Gillingham in the early afternoon and head up the road to watch the first part of tonight's annual carnival (the first one I've been to of the three I've been invited to), which involves the kids of the local Cubs and Brownie groups parading behind brass bands dressed in inexplicable Finding Nemo costumes which are, of course, very cute.
Afterwards we walk back to the house and watch a bit of the Commonwealth Games on telly, relaxing in time for the proper evening part of the carnival. Just as it gets dark out, we go back to the corner of the road to watch the surprisingly (for the uninitiated me, at least) huge floats on the back of lorries trundle by. There are various different themes on display and all exhibit impressive production value for something found in a small Dorset town. K and her family are completely used to this, of course, but I can't remember ever having seen something like this when I was growing up. Maybe it just wouldn't work in Rochdale. When the pick-up trucks come by we chuck our 1 and 2p donations in the back, dodging the bouncebacks and malicious coins thrown by the few little hooligans around and about us.
When the parade finally finishes, we go back to the house and sample a couple of Mrs. B's excellent hot dogs in front of the telly - before starting to watch the improbably enjoyable Die Hard 4.0 on ITV. As ever in K's laid-back family home, though, tiredness takes over very quickly - and we stumble to bed well before midnight.
We get to Gillingham in the early afternoon and head up the road to watch the first part of tonight's annual carnival (the first one I've been to of the three I've been invited to), which involves the kids of the local Cubs and Brownie groups parading behind brass bands dressed in inexplicable Finding Nemo costumes which are, of course, very cute.
Afterwards we walk back to the house and watch a bit of the Commonwealth Games on telly, relaxing in time for the proper evening part of the carnival. Just as it gets dark out, we go back to the corner of the road to watch the surprisingly (for the uninitiated me, at least) huge floats on the back of lorries trundle by. There are various different themes on display and all exhibit impressive production value for something found in a small Dorset town. K and her family are completely used to this, of course, but I can't remember ever having seen something like this when I was growing up. Maybe it just wouldn't work in Rochdale. When the pick-up trucks come by we chuck our 1 and 2p donations in the back, dodging the bouncebacks and malicious coins thrown by the few little hooligans around and about us.
When the parade finally finishes, we go back to the house and sample a couple of Mrs. B's excellent hot dogs in front of the telly - before starting to watch the improbably enjoyable Die Hard 4.0 on ITV. As ever in K's laid-back family home, though, tiredness takes over very quickly - and we stumble to bed well before midnight.
Friday 8th October
We pass the time in the office today by running a competition, designed to gather Twitter followers, based on getting people to retweet a link and, hopefully, end up following our account. Lots of companies are doing this now - and I'm fairly proud that bringing this into our office was basically my idea - and it seems to work well. It's also handily quantifiable, meaning that Georgie is able to report back to our superiors exactly how effective the idea is. It's fun watching the follower and retweet count grow, to the extent that it becomes hard to stop watching.
On the way home from work I stop at Sainsbury's to pick up a couple of bottles of wine for a nice evening in with K, for which I cook up a tasty curry, and we watch a bit of telly while happily relaxing. I end up watching The Apprentice for a second time while K catches up, which doesn't bother me too much as I once again get to wallow in the sheer blind business swagger of this year's assembled gaggle of twats. We had originally planned to spend the later part of the evening playing Scrabble, but by the time bottle two gets started, neither of us quite has the energy for a vigorous word game. We're off to Dorset tomorrow for K's father's birthday - so we take the opportunity for a cosy, red-wine soothed early Friday night.
On the way home from work I stop at Sainsbury's to pick up a couple of bottles of wine for a nice evening in with K, for which I cook up a tasty curry, and we watch a bit of telly while happily relaxing. I end up watching The Apprentice for a second time while K catches up, which doesn't bother me too much as I once again get to wallow in the sheer blind business swagger of this year's assembled gaggle of twats. We had originally planned to spend the later part of the evening playing Scrabble, but by the time bottle two gets started, neither of us quite has the energy for a vigorous word game. We're off to Dorset tomorrow for K's father's birthday - so we take the opportunity for a cosy, red-wine soothed early Friday night.
Thursday 7th October
Mercifully, given my rapidly deteriorating mental state, K gets home this evening. Yes, I have to get up and go to work on my own (though sensibly I make sure to wash the mounting dishes, run the hoover around and empty the bins before I go), but when I get back from the office it is only minutes until she's back through the door. She arrives at around 6, laden with a much heavier suitcase than when she went away and with a digital camera full of stories. I get my presents - a bottle of Jack Daniels (something I always seem to get from America), a cool "I'm Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs" t-shirt and various iterations of M&M chocolate that only proves how well my fiancee knows me. She starts to tell me all about her trip when we decide that since neither of us can be bothered to cook that we should go out to celebrate her return. I call up Banner's in Crouch End and book us a table for 8 o'clock.
We wander over to Crouch End through the surprisingly warm evening, and get to the restaurant in good time. I order a well done burger which turns out to be pretty stunning, while K merrily tucks into a rather impressive-looking swordfish steak. After dinner we head to The Queens and meet up with Mike, Ant and Kelli for a couple of late pints. It's nice to see all of them and to hear K excitedly tell each of us stories of Alcatraz, Ventura and Monday Night Football. We stroll happily back towards Turnpike Lane after last orders - both utterly full, utterly content and utterly knackered.
We wander over to Crouch End through the surprisingly warm evening, and get to the restaurant in good time. I order a well done burger which turns out to be pretty stunning, while K merrily tucks into a rather impressive-looking swordfish steak. After dinner we head to The Queens and meet up with Mike, Ant and Kelli for a couple of late pints. It's nice to see all of them and to hear K excitedly tell each of us stories of Alcatraz, Ventura and Monday Night Football. We stroll happily back towards Turnpike Lane after last orders - both utterly full, utterly content and utterly knackered.
Wednesday 6th October
Another day alone - made all the more apparent by the fact that I'm making less and less imaginative lunches for myself. It hardly seems worthwhile concocting anything particularly exciting, since I won't be surprising or delighting anyone in particular. I actually go out of my way most of the time to avoid seeing what K's putting in my sandwiches, just to heighten that 1pm sense of the unknown (though really I'm rarely absolutely astonished. One day she'll put crab paste or - more likely - nothing in my lunchtime rolls and really surprise me). Am I too well looked after? Almost certainly.
Tonight I finish off the sad remnants of last night's dinner and watch a bit of TV. Excitingly, the new series of The Apprentice starts tonight - a show I regularly enjoy (though I missed the uninspiring Junior Apprentice earlier this year), mainly because it's fascinating watching people around my age who are motivated so differently in life. These people actually believe in "business" and "success" and consider themselves to be great "salespeople", when they are almost always complete tossers. Clueless, arrogant, oblivious and obnoxious, they make for great telly and tonight's opening episode doesn't disappoint. The task involves making and selling sausages on the street - affording young berks like Stuart Baggs the opportunity to aggresively and charmlessly berate passers-by while being berated himself by self-styled management genius Dan for the entire day. The world view of these people is so completley alien to mine that I can't tear my eyes away, and Lord Sugar's boardroom scene is as enjoyable as ever, if only because it's delightful seeing the pricks taken down a peg or two. Schadenfreude makes amazing TV.
Tonight I finish off the sad remnants of last night's dinner and watch a bit of TV. Excitingly, the new series of The Apprentice starts tonight - a show I regularly enjoy (though I missed the uninspiring Junior Apprentice earlier this year), mainly because it's fascinating watching people around my age who are motivated so differently in life. These people actually believe in "business" and "success" and consider themselves to be great "salespeople", when they are almost always complete tossers. Clueless, arrogant, oblivious and obnoxious, they make for great telly and tonight's opening episode doesn't disappoint. The task involves making and selling sausages on the street - affording young berks like Stuart Baggs the opportunity to aggresively and charmlessly berate passers-by while being berated himself by self-styled management genius Dan for the entire day. The world view of these people is so completley alien to mine that I can't tear my eyes away, and Lord Sugar's boardroom scene is as enjoyable as ever, if only because it's delightful seeing the pricks taken down a peg or two. Schadenfreude makes amazing TV.
Tuesday 5th October
I may have lost the “Kindle Race” I had with K's sister a couple of weeks ago – but today is the day I win. The package from Amazon arrives in the office in the middle of the morning, and when I've quickly charged it up I have fun showing it off around the office and infuriating the slightly luddite anti-eReader contingent in attendance. This being the publishing industry, it's probably natural to be suspicious of this new technology and its potential role in the decline of printed books – but I've decided to embrace it and, like the music industry a few years ago, the publishing industry will only properly survive if it does too. This is not the end of printed books – art, photography and children's books, for example, will always look better and be better loved in print – but why not pay to download the unsentimental paperback one might otherwise have bought and discarded? It's better for the environment at any rate.
I get home and make dinner before getting the Kindle out and having a proper play around. I decide to download Stephen Fry's new autobiography – which seems in the spirit of the technology, such is Fry's devotion to it – and start reading at around 7pm with a record playing. Looking up from the book some time later I'm shocked to see that it's after midnight. Celebrity biographies are always quick reads, I find, but this one is particularly engrossing and I so much enjoy the reading experience on the Kindle that I don't find myself wanting to stop for a long time. I do need to, though, so I trudge reluctantly to bed.
I get home and make dinner before getting the Kindle out and having a proper play around. I decide to download Stephen Fry's new autobiography – which seems in the spirit of the technology, such is Fry's devotion to it – and start reading at around 7pm with a record playing. Looking up from the book some time later I'm shocked to see that it's after midnight. Celebrity biographies are always quick reads, I find, but this one is particularly engrossing and I so much enjoy the reading experience on the Kindle that I don't find myself wanting to stop for a long time. I do need to, though, so I trudge reluctantly to bed.
Monday 4th October
My first working day alone. It sounds melodramatic – but the slight hangover makes it all the more unbearable, as I drag myself out of bed (so used to being dragged) and make my own lunch and breakfast before heading, harrassed, out of the door. A great deal of my morning routine is dictated by K's morning routine, so to not have her around leaves the experience formless and chaotic. K has emailed overnight and seems to be having a great time in San Francisco, and is about to leave to drive down the coast towards Los Angeles. Good for her. I'm still in Wood Green and slogging through the various bits and pieces of work that need to be done for next month's approaching sales kit. My head is firmly in March 2011 – six month lead-in times make it difficult to engage with the date it actually is.
This evening I've arranged to meet Mike in Wood Green to go and see Back to the Future at the Cineworld cinema – back on the big screen for its 25th anniversary. 2010 is shaping up to be a very good year for 25th anniversaries, what with me, Super Mario Bros and now one of the greatest films of all time all getting our quarter-centuries. I have always, always loved this series (though, I must admit, Back to the Future Part 2 is by far my favourite – inspiring my love of all things technological and futuristic from a very young age, I think, as well as my sincere desire to one day own a flying Delorean) and the chance to see it at the cinema can not be missed.
I head to Spouter's Corner, Wood Green's very own dubious Wetherspoon's, to meet Mike at 8pm, but today's tube strike has left him running late, so instead we decide to meet in the cinema screen itself. I finish a quick pint and head down to buy my ticket. Being Monday evening and, I concede, a 25-year-old movie, the cinema only has around six other people in – meaning that saving Mike a seat is far from being a problem. The film starts and, happily, it looks brilliant in this large cinematic format. It's also held up incredibly well and while the fact that it's set in 1985 makes it dated to some extent, it is also very clearly a product of its time and proudly so.
After the film we endeavour to make last orders at Spouter's Corner – but when we walk up there the place is surrounded in police tape, with an officer blocking the doorway. Oh dear. I wonder how closely I missed being part of the doubtless fairly serious crime that just took place here? We shudder slightly and attempt going across the road to The Goose, but alas they have already rung their bell.
This evening I've arranged to meet Mike in Wood Green to go and see Back to the Future at the Cineworld cinema – back on the big screen for its 25th anniversary. 2010 is shaping up to be a very good year for 25th anniversaries, what with me, Super Mario Bros and now one of the greatest films of all time all getting our quarter-centuries. I have always, always loved this series (though, I must admit, Back to the Future Part 2 is by far my favourite – inspiring my love of all things technological and futuristic from a very young age, I think, as well as my sincere desire to one day own a flying Delorean) and the chance to see it at the cinema can not be missed.
I head to Spouter's Corner, Wood Green's very own dubious Wetherspoon's, to meet Mike at 8pm, but today's tube strike has left him running late, so instead we decide to meet in the cinema screen itself. I finish a quick pint and head down to buy my ticket. Being Monday evening and, I concede, a 25-year-old movie, the cinema only has around six other people in – meaning that saving Mike a seat is far from being a problem. The film starts and, happily, it looks brilliant in this large cinematic format. It's also held up incredibly well and while the fact that it's set in 1985 makes it dated to some extent, it is also very clearly a product of its time and proudly so.
After the film we endeavour to make last orders at Spouter's Corner – but when we walk up there the place is surrounded in police tape, with an officer blocking the doorway. Oh dear. I wonder how closely I missed being part of the doubtless fairly serious crime that just took place here? We shudder slightly and attempt going across the road to The Goose, but alas they have already rung their bell.
Sunday 3rd October
Determined to make today less of a miserably lonely day than yesterday, I start brightly by heading to Sainsbury's to shop for goods to get me through the week. I also invite Alex round for lunch, on whose instruction I cook up some fish fingers, potato waffles and beans – a fact that makes my mother laugh on the phone later, such was this meal's ubiquity in my childhood. Thankfully K and others have taught me to be somewhat more adventurous in the intervening years.
Alex comes round and the meal goes down very well as we watch a bit of telly before heading out to watch the football. We arrive at the Worlds End on Stroud Green Road a good hour before Chelsea v Arsenal kicks off, managing to catch the end of Man City v Newcastle (2-1) and catch world of the astonishing result between Liverpool and Blackpool at Anfield, in which the hosts are beaten 2-1 by the visiting Premier League minnows. The pub slowly but steadily fills up to capacity, our seats occupying an uncomfortable position in front of the bar but with a decent view of a good few screens over the heads of the gathered Gooners. The match turns out to be a very enjoyable one with some good quality attacking football from both sides, and more or less impenetrable defending from Chelsea. Drogba scores the first from an Ashley Cole cross before half-time, then Alex adds a second with a typically thumping free kick five minutes from time. Alex (my Alex) isn't too pleased, but we head up to the Faltering Fullback for another pint to dissect the game.
We're both in the mood to play a little pool, so we get the bus up to Crouch End towards the Hope and Anchor, whose sole pool table is in the firm control of the local semi-pros. Nevertheless we put our names down, and over the next couple of hours we drink and play the jukebox in between routine demolitions. One game sees me paying a pound for the priviledge of taking a single (missed) shot. Alex fares a little better, potting a couple before her inevitable demise. By closing time we're both hungry again, so we make a welcome stop at Pizza Go-Go before heading home. I don't know why, but Sunday always seems to be more of a fun day to go out. Until Monday morning, that is.
Alex comes round and the meal goes down very well as we watch a bit of telly before heading out to watch the football. We arrive at the Worlds End on Stroud Green Road a good hour before Chelsea v Arsenal kicks off, managing to catch the end of Man City v Newcastle (2-1) and catch world of the astonishing result between Liverpool and Blackpool at Anfield, in which the hosts are beaten 2-1 by the visiting Premier League minnows. The pub slowly but steadily fills up to capacity, our seats occupying an uncomfortable position in front of the bar but with a decent view of a good few screens over the heads of the gathered Gooners. The match turns out to be a very enjoyable one with some good quality attacking football from both sides, and more or less impenetrable defending from Chelsea. Drogba scores the first from an Ashley Cole cross before half-time, then Alex adds a second with a typically thumping free kick five minutes from time. Alex (my Alex) isn't too pleased, but we head up to the Faltering Fullback for another pint to dissect the game.
We're both in the mood to play a little pool, so we get the bus up to Crouch End towards the Hope and Anchor, whose sole pool table is in the firm control of the local semi-pros. Nevertheless we put our names down, and over the next couple of hours we drink and play the jukebox in between routine demolitions. One game sees me paying a pound for the priviledge of taking a single (missed) shot. Alex fares a little better, potting a couple before her inevitable demise. By closing time we're both hungry again, so we make a welcome stop at Pizza Go-Go before heading home. I don't know why, but Sunday always seems to be more of a fun day to go out. Until Monday morning, that is.
Saturday 2nd October
The weather today is absolutely rotten and, waking up incredibly late, it seems like the afternoon can more or less be written off from the get-go. Browsing around Twitter brings to my attention the fact that today's Guardian comes with a free copy of the classic spoof movie Airplane! - a movie I've seen many times, so many times in fact that I've never bothered buying it – so I make plans to at least venture as far as Tesco. I head out into the drizzle at around lunchtime, the bottoms of my new jeans dragging under my trainers. I treat myself to a scotch egg to go with my newspaper and return to the flat with no intention of leaving again today. Is this how I would live every day if I were left to my own devices? It doesn't bear thinking about.
I while away the afternoon fiddling with the computer and watching a couple of films – including rewatching Wall-E as I had been convinced that the Habanera, the song we couldn't remember last night, was in it. It's not. I have a little dinner and stick Airplane! On the DVD player, briefly wondering to myself how many other lonely Guardian readers were doing the same thing with their evenings. The weather remains so crappy outside that I refrain even from venturing out for a comforting couple of cans or bottle of wine, thus making tonight my first sober Saturday in quite some time. It is nice, though, and after watching an entertaining Dara O Briain stand-up show on Comedy Central I wander, lonesome as a cloud, to bed.
I while away the afternoon fiddling with the computer and watching a couple of films – including rewatching Wall-E as I had been convinced that the Habanera, the song we couldn't remember last night, was in it. It's not. I have a little dinner and stick Airplane! On the DVD player, briefly wondering to myself how many other lonely Guardian readers were doing the same thing with their evenings. The weather remains so crappy outside that I refrain even from venturing out for a comforting couple of cans or bottle of wine, thus making tonight my first sober Saturday in quite some time. It is nice, though, and after watching an entertaining Dara O Briain stand-up show on Comedy Central I wander, lonesome as a cloud, to bed.
Friday 1st October
K is off on her little trip to America this afternoon – meaning that she has the time to spend the morning pottering about the flat and, more importantly, fixing me a rather special farewell breakfast before I trundle off to work. Taking a deep breath and preparing myself for 6 days of near solitude, we say goodbye and I make my way to the office – where I spend the later part of the afternoon watching the rather compelling flightaware.com website, which allows me to track K's flight from gate to runway. It's hard not to keep checking it – and fun to think I can keep an eye on where she is while she's in such an abstract space as “somewhere over the Atlantic”. As the plane takes off at 16.31, it's odd to think that she won't be in San Francisco until eight tomorrow morning.
After work I head down to Turnpike Lane station and meet up with Alex, with vague plans to head into town and see what adventures we can have in the West End. As it happens the first place we go is The Cock, where we waste a couple of pints' time trying to remember the name and origin of a very famous tune we are both capable of humming. We ask other people around us, who also know the song but not the name – and it's another couple of hours and another couple of pubs before we give up. The tune in question is, in fact, La Habanera from the opera Carmen. But knowledge of this makes the earworm no less irritating.
After leaving Soho we head to Leicester Square station and make our way to Holloway Road for late night drinks. The place is packed but we find a stool and chatter away aimlessly until 1am and make our way to the stop for the 29. The bus ride starts OK – but Alex takes it upon herself to get into a fight with a young Spanish girl who gives her a dirty look for allegedly standing in the way of her conversation – on a busy nightbus. Alex is probably in the right here, but I take steps to come between her and the Spanish girl. No one needs this kind of hassle. Though it is quite funny.
After work I head down to Turnpike Lane station and meet up with Alex, with vague plans to head into town and see what adventures we can have in the West End. As it happens the first place we go is The Cock, where we waste a couple of pints' time trying to remember the name and origin of a very famous tune we are both capable of humming. We ask other people around us, who also know the song but not the name – and it's another couple of hours and another couple of pubs before we give up. The tune in question is, in fact, La Habanera from the opera Carmen. But knowledge of this makes the earworm no less irritating.
After leaving Soho we head to Leicester Square station and make our way to Holloway Road for late night drinks. The place is packed but we find a stool and chatter away aimlessly until 1am and make our way to the stop for the 29. The bus ride starts OK – but Alex takes it upon herself to get into a fight with a young Spanish girl who gives her a dirty look for allegedly standing in the way of her conversation – on a busy nightbus. Alex is probably in the right here, but I take steps to come between her and the Spanish girl. No one needs this kind of hassle. Though it is quite funny.
Saturday 2 October 2010
Thursday 30th September
With K off on holiday to San Francisco tomorrow (alright for some, etc etc), I struggle to come to terms with the fact that it's not actually my last day at work of the week too - but with few of us in the office there is a kind of Friday feeling about the day. There's plenty to get on with though, and I take pleasure in ticking a few things off the to do list, even if I do (unfairly) have to come back in tomorrow.
To kick off the weekend and see K off on her holiday, we're meeting some folks for drinks in town this evening. After coming home and chilling out for a while (watching The Simpsons, reading a little bit of The Picture of Dorian Gray on the irresistible, soon-to-depart Kindle) I get on the tube and head for Oxford Circus feeling tired and not especially enthused about being in the pub - especially when I get there and the place is rammed. I wait at the downstairs bar of The Cock for ages before exasperation forces me to the more manageable upstairs bar. K is already here with Big Nick, Lyndsey and a couple of others; and after a couple of Alpines I'm more in the mood. Tim, Jenny and Mike show up later and I have fun catching up with them and introducing Jenny to the world of Fruit Ninja, the latest silly phone game to have grabbed my attention.
When the bell rings K and I head for the tube and back North. We toy with the idea of ordering a takeaway as a payday treat - but instead decide to be sensible and stick with the pizza in the freezer.
To kick off the weekend and see K off on her holiday, we're meeting some folks for drinks in town this evening. After coming home and chilling out for a while (watching The Simpsons, reading a little bit of The Picture of Dorian Gray on the irresistible, soon-to-depart Kindle) I get on the tube and head for Oxford Circus feeling tired and not especially enthused about being in the pub - especially when I get there and the place is rammed. I wait at the downstairs bar of The Cock for ages before exasperation forces me to the more manageable upstairs bar. K is already here with Big Nick, Lyndsey and a couple of others; and after a couple of Alpines I'm more in the mood. Tim, Jenny and Mike show up later and I have fun catching up with them and introducing Jenny to the world of Fruit Ninja, the latest silly phone game to have grabbed my attention.
When the bell rings K and I head for the tube and back North. We toy with the idea of ordering a takeaway as a payday treat - but instead decide to be sensible and stick with the pizza in the freezer.
Wednesday 29th September
Today is the day I lose the Kindle race. I had made a deal with K's twin that if she ordered a Kindle ebook reader from Amazon just before she went travelling, I'd take it off her hands if it didn't show up in time for K to take it with her to America this week. I hadn't really planned to get one - but I knew I wanted one, and her extended stay out of the country would have let me pay her back gradually. Imagine my disappointment, then, when the parcel (which is being delivered to K's office) turns up this morning - a fact I am alerted to when K posts a twitpic of the contents. It's got here with two days to spare, and in my disappointment I reason that tomorrow is payday and go online to order one for myself. An impulse buy, maybe, but my goodness do they look pretty.
K goes swimming tonight (women only, alas) so I do a nice dinner and leave her a plate out, before watching the final This is England 86, which I missed last night and which wraps up the four-part sequel nicely, and in typically Meadowsian harrowing fashion. Later I watch the beginning of Valencia v Man Utd, which turns out to be a drab affair with little quality on show - so little in fact that I give up on it well before the end (missing United's customary undeserved late winner) when K finally gets home.
I have a good bit of fun charging and setting up K's sister's Kindle, and while I'm sad that I don't get to keep this particular one, I'm at least pleased that it's as pretty and technically impressive as I had hope. It's unbelievably thin and light (something which appeals to me after a long time spent with troublesomely massive new hardbacks) and the screen is genuinely uncanny to look at. It doesn't look like a screen at all - the text appears to be printed on a sold surface and doesn't fade or distort depending on the angle you're looking at it from. The "e-ink" also requires no power to stay on the screen, meaning the battery life is huge and you can leave a page up for as long as you like. I download a couple of free classics, to give them a test read - and K has a little play with it too. Mine is due to dispatch on Friday - can't wait!
K goes swimming tonight (women only, alas) so I do a nice dinner and leave her a plate out, before watching the final This is England 86, which I missed last night and which wraps up the four-part sequel nicely, and in typically Meadowsian harrowing fashion. Later I watch the beginning of Valencia v Man Utd, which turns out to be a drab affair with little quality on show - so little in fact that I give up on it well before the end (missing United's customary undeserved late winner) when K finally gets home.
I have a good bit of fun charging and setting up K's sister's Kindle, and while I'm sad that I don't get to keep this particular one, I'm at least pleased that it's as pretty and technically impressive as I had hope. It's unbelievably thin and light (something which appeals to me after a long time spent with troublesomely massive new hardbacks) and the screen is genuinely uncanny to look at. It doesn't look like a screen at all - the text appears to be printed on a sold surface and doesn't fade or distort depending on the angle you're looking at it from. The "e-ink" also requires no power to stay on the screen, meaning the battery life is huge and you can leave a page up for as long as you like. I download a couple of free classics, to give them a test read - and K has a little play with it too. Mine is due to dispatch on Friday - can't wait!
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