I've just got back from a pub quiz in East Sheen. We came joint first. We would've been first were it not for the tie breaker; 'What year was Max Shrek's Nosferatu released?' Jimmy stood with the quizmaster mumbling '1938... 1936... Erm, 1929' while the opposing team's nominee vaguely blurted out '1921' and won.
It was fun though. Going out on a school night has some merits. Plus I had my standard issue Midway Coke™ to level me out.
Since giving up smoking when I went out with The Hobo two days ago, I have managed to avoid all tobacco-based cravings by continuing to smoke, and it's working.
It's suddenly become vindictively cold. Our extended Summer 2006 is officially moribund. Only last week I was cycling in shorts and a t-shirt. Now when waiting for a post-pub quiz bus, my jeans became wind-blasted cool to the point where they stung my naked legs when I moved. I love seasons, but I can't handle any of them. My tippex-like complexion means I sweat horrendously in anything over a 7 degree heat and have to constantly wear white to avoid visible stainage. Such aversion to sweating means I still wear a t-shirt under my coat in the autumn, yet I freeze in the cold as if I'm an Equatorial New Guinean in my first Icelandic snowstorm. I should be made for this weather, but I spent today frequently fretting over my fingernails turning purple for the tenth time. It doesn't help that my bosses are too cheap to switch the heating on. They'll only do that when our snot begins to freeze tissues to our noses.
When I went to the toilet at work, I caught sight of the mirror as I was grinning nonchalantly to myself. I noticed a pair of huge weathered creases under my eyes. I have never really seen any physical signs of me ageing before. I stopped grinning. Then I found myself looking rather sexy when I frowned, and decided that I would have to dedicate the rest of my life to looking constantly moody, like the trailers I've seen of Daniel Craig, the new James Bond.
Work is frantic. Still no sign of a lunchbreak in a year and a half, and no time to read my personal emails let alone reply to them. One woman in our shop continued to ask me questions despite the fact that I looked visibly pissed off at 2pm clutching a french stick she'd disturbed me from moulding into a sandwich. It was to become the first thing I ate today. I haven't had breakfast for two days running, or dinner either now I think about it. My evening meal tonight consisted of 3 alcoholic drinks, a Coca-Cola, and two packets of crisps whilst answering questions on general knowledge. I haven't been as dietarily reckless as this since I was a student.
Or perhaps since last week.
The girl on the opposite table to us at the quiz was really cute. Sadly she's the same girl I told off last week for butting in at the bar. It is the singlemost offensive thing you can do in a pub. To walk up to wait to be served, notice someone walk up next to you much later, and watch in astonishment as the barperson serves them first and they go ahead and give their order is really irritating. No wonder society is crumbling. So I snapped at this girl that I've been waiting. She took it badly and - probably embarrassed - allowed me to get served. Of all ironies, I was only getting a fucking tapwater. I then apologised to her but she wasn't happy. And tonight I realised she is lovely. Shame she recognised me and sneered.
Last night I called my ex-girlfriend. I was weak. I wanted to catch up despite me ending our relationship what with her being an American permanently living in New York and the whole thing not really being viable, and it's clear that she still has strong feelings for me and now I feel like a toad. She's even dating an Englishman over there but told me it's not working because - pause - he's not me. That was strange to hear. She wants to fly over and see me again, putting the transatlantic meetings at Her=4, Me=1. I told her it's best she got a hotel this time, and that we probably shouldn't have sex. She seemed a little taken aback that I stated it. I think it was on her agenda.
Of course, I'd have sex with her in a heartbeat, but it's clear it would mean a whole lot more to her than it would me and I'd rather not do it if she winds up in more pain. The last thing she said to me face-to-face, at the departures lounge at Heathrow, was 'I love you'.
As I recall, my reply was 'Erm...'
The last thing I did tonight, before writing this, was to check out the dating website I belong to. My ex-ex Girlfriend was online. The last thing she said to me face-to-face was 'It's not working.' I honestly never saw that one coming.
This weekend, I'm going to Ipswich.
The best thing to come out of Ipswich is the train back to London.