So this is what it’s come to. 10:30pm on a Friday night and I am tucked up in bed. Disgraceful. Of course I am not alone, I have the comedy styling’s of BBC 2’ finest to wince away the hours, but still, I can’t help but feel slightly dissatisfied, that there are much greater adventures beyond these four walls. Surely a man in his early 30’s can muster up more than a takeaway and excess remote fondling on a Friday night. Maybe.
But for tonight, I guess routine shall prevail and Paul Merton and co will ease my social pangs. Still, Friday spells the start of the weekend, two whole days away from work and all its shiny monotony. Yeah, I will make the most of this weekend, in fact, let me cement my ideas in ink and make a list of the things I’d like to do this weekend:
1) Finish my new Grisham novel
2) Ride the London Eye
3) Take in the Ian Fleming exhibition
Yeah, 3 is enough, large enough to constitute a list and small enough as to not overwhelm me.
Oh and another:
4) Thank Heidi for the diary
Well it’s Sunday and I have completed a total of zero activities on my list. Shit! In my defence, there was a Scrubs marathon on Saturday afternoon and while I would have loved to endure the greatness that is public transport and the greyness that is a British January, it felt much more appropriate to stay in the flat, armed with Pringles (buy one get one free, thank you generic supermarket offers) and fruit juice and catch up with Turk and the gang.
As I write this, I can hear strange moans coming from Stefan’s room, so I’m assuming he got lucky last night...again. Still, all that carrying on at this hour, during The Politics Show I might add is just plain discourteous.
Ok, enough ranting, time to resume the normal Sunday routine which consists of:
1) Cooking a roast
2) Shouting advice to the misguided residents of Albert Square
3) Ironing a weeks’ worth of shirts for work
4) Trying not to be appalled by Stefan’s taste in women.
Monday 17th January – 10:02pm
Mondays’ are by far the MOST depressing day of the week in the office. Everyone sits down, tea in one hand, Malted Milk in the other, and trades stories of parties, pills and pulling, while I hide behind my screen, eavesdropping, hoping they don’t ask me, for fear of having nothing to contribute other than a bite-size review of the weekends’ TV and the sexual exploits of my South African flatmate and his easily pleased one night stands. Fucking great! Still, it’s over, and this is the furthest moment away from another Monday, so thank the Lord for that.
Time for some Grisham and a milky tea before bed methinks.
Tuesday 18th January - 6: 49pm
Why the fuck doesn't he do housework? I encounter morons all day at work; must I really live with one too? Is it too much to ask that he washes his own dishes – really? Must I honestly come home and CLEAN before I COOK and then CLEAN AGAIN!!
Fuck you Stefan!!
Thursday 19th January 7:21pm (just getting home now!)
I’ve decided that the commute to work is much worse than work itself. I’ve found that there are 3 types of person I end up standing within close proximity to on the tube:
1) The gazer. He/she never reads the free paper and they never read, or at least pretend to read the advertisements on the walls, instead, they choose to gaze at me, for their entire journey, adrift in my pupils, as if the answer to historys' greatest questions are somewhere between my retina and my iris.
2) The inexperienced. He/she cannot find their footing or even enough space or gravity to stand still, so they end up wobbling their way through the journey. One day, I may just stop the train and conduct a tutorial on the importance of handrails and their ability to minimize how much damage a person can cause to a fellow traveller if you just HOLD ON!
3) The reader. He/she will insist on reading their paper – tabloid or broadsheet – or their shitty Amazon approved book of the month - (I actually checked the website and this months’ book is The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho, 100 + pages about Santiago the shepherd, who has a severe case of ADHD and the inability to hold down a job. If he were British, he would probably have an ASBO and find it charming to finish every sentence with 'man') - without regard for others, which means I spend the journey dodging elbows and rubbing my nose against the smudge-able fine print.
And to top it off, none of these people are ever women I find slightly attractive – sod’s law.
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