That was the weekend that was

Jeez, what happened to the weekend? 10pm on Sunday and I’ve done nothing. Slept late yesterday, gnawed through email, drifted around Covent Garden for a while, headed for the gym, decided not to head there after all, bought some Verdi, browsed a Charing Cross bookshop, then home to some sausage and a bottle of Rioja. Today: bought the Times, went to the pool (made it this time), had a coffee and panini at Canary Wharf, went shopping at Waitrose, which as ever on a Sunday was more of a singles club than a supermarket.

(Aside: how exactly do you meet women in a supermarket? Gesturing basketwards and commenting on the firmness of your melons strikes me as a pathetic opening, since it’s so obvious: saying it instantly puts the woman in control of the conversation. And given that you’ve just demonstrated a complete lack of originality, she’s a lot more likely to be laughing in the aisles than checking you out at the checkout. But what other subject is there surrounded by bread and broccoli? Canary Wharf Waitrose knows this problem and has helpfully provided a sushi counter and champagne bar for instant dating, but how many women would really agree to a date there and then?)

Anyway, finished my shopping and left (quickly, to avoid any trouble with the woman with the melons in her basket dialling 999 on her mobile.) And spent the evening devouring the papers, no TV, no music, no wine…. and somehow it’s now gone ten.

This is my life. And it’s ending one minute at a time.

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