Today marks the start of the final weekend before K's sisters head off travelling around the world, so her twin turns up on our doorstep (literally) when I get home from work, armed with lager and huge bags of possessions to be hauled around the planet. She and K are off to a gig tonight, but we sit and have a little dinner before they head to Islington. I'm left alone for the majority of the evening, so I muck about on the internet for a while and watch a bit of telly.
There's precious little on so I flick to the Xbox – and while continuing to take Russia to World Cup glory (bouncing back from a 1-1 draw with Greece in game one to beat both Mali and Paraguay 3-0, finishing as group leaders and setting up a tasty Cold War grudge match with the USA in the second round) is fun for a while, I start to veer into dangerously-bored territory. I put the DVD of Catterick on – but realising that the quality of the series dwindles slighlty towards the end, I'm once again bored, listless and unsatisfied. I send out a hopeful text to Alex, wondering whether she'll be on her way home from the opera any time soon and would she like to hang out. Worryingly, this ends up in my second 11pm invite to the Tollgate in three days – and even more worryingly, I grasp the opportunity eagerly.
We sit there for a little while as neither of us have much cash – but I can at least reflect on the fact that last night I stood around drinking champagne at an exclusive Soho rooftop bar, hobnobbing with people probably far more important than I – and tonight I'm in a grim, bleakly populated Wetherspoon's opposite a row of curry houses in North London. I'm like bloody George Orwell or something.
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