Friday, 14 August 2009

"Today I didn't even have to use my AK"

Durex gave me a lift to Bolton in the morning - I was off to get my stitches out. Finally! An end to all this root canal rubbish! Lucinda, as always, was brilliant. I'm hoping I don't have to go and see her again - that my teeth won't cause me any more problems - but at the same time I was a little sad at the thought of not seeing her again. So it goes, I suppose.

Back to work, and - luckily - my idiotic transgression from yesterday seems to have borne none of the foul fruit it could have. I must give the impression that I'm expecting a gun rack shipment via eBay. I'm glad it was kicked to the kerb, and that it doesn't looks like there'll be any kind of awkward meetup as a consequence of my error. Phew, what a relief! Case closed!

I bought Persepolis for Tracy at lunchtime - a birthday gift. I called her - and she was just around the corner in town. Brilliant! As I headed round to meet her, I strolled past Vicky and her David. I'd finished on the phone, but I kept it by my ear. Case closed, I'd said, so let's leave it that way. Tracy was very pleased with the book. It was lovely to see her.

I met the casual sex girl from work for Friday pint after work club - just the pair of us, as usual. After a bit of a catch up - we hadn't hung out since she and I had a bit of a to-do about her wanting to date me - her ex showed up. The poor lad is taking their recent break-up pretty badly, and now he's been made redundant. He was only dumped by her a couple of months ago. We left the Lass to hide out from him in Odder. Halfway down our next pint, he showed up there too. Oh dear! So we turned around and scooted into the Thirsty Scholar. He didn't find us. I enjoyed re-acquainting myself with her on entirely non-romantic, non-sexual terms. Win!

On the bus home, I leafed through the new Economist, a Friday pleasure like no other. China's trade in South America, US air-bases in Columbia - all pretty standard (interesting, but dense) Economist fare. The obituary was for Benson, a carp, and was exquisitely written.

PETERBOROUGH, in the English Midlands, is a red-brick town, best known as the midway point on the line between King’s Cross and York. But from the bottom of Kingfisher Lake, just outside it, urban toil seems far away. There, all is most delightful silt and slime. A push of your probing nose sends up puffs and clouds of fine mud through the water. A riff of bubbles rises, silvery, towards the surface. The green reeds quiver, and sunlight ripples down almost to the depths where you are lurking, plump and still.

Nothing I read about Michael Jackson was as eloquent. What a fish, and - oh my! - what a newspaper!

When I got home, Kate was watching TV, but with no real purpose. QI wasn't on, nor was Jonathan Ross. I flicked a bit, and found something about allotments. "Oh wow," said Kate as she came back into the room, "this was the film that I worked on!" It was called Grow Your Own, and I thought it was pretty good. Kate was full of little nuggets about what she'd done during individual scenes. It was like having a director's commentary, only with the costume department. I only wish I'd seen it all.

All in all, I have to say, today was a good day.

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