Jet lag is even less enjoyable that I remember it.
I blew my nose yesterday and a whole lot of black stuff came out of it so I knew I was definitely back in London. I am also drinking Yorkshire tea, probably another clue.
So, rocked in, was an hour too late for the protests/riots, such a pity, and got to Katie's just in time for tea and chocolate and the super uber news that she had quit her job that morning. We are unemployment buddies. We will skip through the daffodils together, holding hands and whistling in a merry fashion. Now, if I can only control my spending, this whole unemployed in Europe gag should be a doddle. Which it won't be because I've just remembered what I've bought in the past four days. But the dresses are so nice and they're vintage, so somehow in my head, it's all okay. And I really needed those aubergines. And I can pat myself on the back for not purchasing the purple towelling playsuit for £40, even though I really wanted it.
With the riots, bankers were told to 'dress casual' so as not to provoke the hippy protestors, also called 'unwashed' and 'stupid' by people interviewed in the media. I gather the average banker's idea of casual is somewhat different to that of the normal person. Full points to the young chap who went to work in a t-shirt proclaiming 'I predict a riot', though.
Caught up with the London version of the Chch gang yesterday, where I shamed myself by pretty much falling asleep at the table and had to go home at 9.30. Pathetic. They all seemed well, although, quite frankly, they could have been telling me of their unfortunate chlamydia experience and I might not have registered it.
Spent Friday night in Oxford visiting the munchkin - who I made sure was fed every two hours as per the instructions. Otherwise I'm pretty sure she shrivels up and cannot be revived unless you rub bike oil into her skin. Oxford is very pretty. Oxford is very English. So disgustingly pretty and English I was charmed. Had a jolly good op shop as well. And I got new jeans. They are stretchy ones, which I said I would never buy, but as Gen bought them for me, I can stick to that. The truly exciting and magical thing about these jeans is that they are almost too long. Impossible, I hear you gasp. Oh gentle reader, I too feared this day would never come, but it's true! So true it deserves a hated exclamation mark.
Right now I am supposed to be in tennis whites, drinking pimms and being mildly rude to Justin's friends, which I'm pretty sure is the only reason he invited me. However, not even the lure of tight white shorts was enough to get me across the city today, when I could instead be scoffing more chocolate and eating neurofen like raisins instead. Also, I'll need at nap at about 4pm. So I told him I was getting a labia reduction and would be unable to make it.
Current sleeping pattern involves me waking up at about 4.30am most mornings for about two hours. On Thursday night/Friday morning I was lucky enough to be lying wide awake at about this time, which enabled me to hear a woman greet her 16-year-old daughter as the young lady and her date tried to come home quietly - I think they were a bit past curfew. Mum was one cross lady. Shrieking like a fishwife. Took me a bit to piece together exactly what was going on, so high was her voice pitched, but eventually I worked out that the daughter was with an undesirable, possibly a much older one at that, judging by the amount of times the mum screeched 'She's only 16-fucking-years-old'. Daughter obviously did not agree with the state of affairs and argued back, resulting in mother uttering the charming line 'You fucking whore'. Good times, I tell you, good times.
I have a really good bruise on my lower back, which several people have kindly pointed out to me, although, generously, they have not poked it. I know where this came from and await my revenge. It's just a pity the perpetrators are in a different country right now. Their time will come.
On the back of my chocolate bar the manufacturers have kindly listed exactly how many calories are in each chunk. I do not think this is helpful, rather that it is depressing. But one more piece won't hurt. And neither will this piece. And if I don't eat it, then Katie probably will, so it's best if I just keep going and prevent her from making herself sick from overindulgence, which she is so prone to.
Ireland this week. Spain not long after. Wedding in middle.