I have an impending date lined up for next week. The date is not yet set, but it will be. I wish I could be more enthusiastic, but I'm not. You see, I had wanted to be a few pounds lighter once I'd recommenced the giddying thrill of
On the plus side, I'm finding life rather fun now that I'm no longer spending my free time writing a (Ha!) 'novel' every day. I've been out a lot more (tons of fun, but painful on the liver/ wallet). I've also treated myself to some new clothes and a handful of dvds, one of my treats being the entire run of Deadwood - watching it for the first time five years after the rest of the planet as I make my slow, cocksucking way through all three seasons. (Please Google that reference as that, in retrospect, reads as a wholly inappropriate sentence for a straight man.)
Meanwhile, this afternoon, in between swearing at the ringing phones and eating a rancid prawn cocktail sandwich, I ventured out to Boots - for the benefit of non-Angloids, a popular British pharmacy (that I've also seen on the Kao San Road in Bangkok, btw) - who are, in conjunction with the wonderful if much maligned NHS, offering a quit smoking programme. My nicotinal habit, you see, is becoming somewhat worrying. I'm developing a pain in my heart that isn't for once caused by the absence of an understanding and patient woman, or the lingering resentment garnered by a perfectly good life atrophying in shit.
For £7.20, I get as much nicotine replacement in gum, patch or inhaler form as I can imbibe for five weeks, and lots of progress consultations. I can't wait. I want to feel like a socially accepted heroin addict in remission.
And finally, last week, as I stood on the tube flicking through the free evening paper, I found myself gasping in shock to the bemusement of the other passengers. There, staring back at me, was Nemesis II, looking serious and sex-pesty as the story in question had him a witness to a frankly horrific accident in which a cyclist fought with a lorry.
The lorry won.
I'd like to dwell more on the young woman who died in such a barbaric way as she made her way home from work, and avoid the irritation I felt at revisiting that twat in newspaper form, but what can I say. We are all, as Freud had it, rather self-obsessed.
I still feel awful about the whole business though, and that's miserable and gives me a greater headache.