kitshsin

I’m not sure what the matter is with the people in here. Half of them seem incapable of grasping the very fundamentals of hygiene. Outside of the occasional floater, there is a bloke in here who must have an arsehole like The Kingsway, the single utility that bears the brunt of these unsanitary devils is the fridge. Within lies packets of silver-foiled matter, Tupperware filled with organic cement, discarded clingfilm lumps of render and endless bits of snack, half consumed, half dead.

The last thing one wishes to see with a mild hangover on the filth that is a Monday morning is the fucking fridge, every time I go to get the milk out for my coffee I run the risk of botulism, plague and Ebola. It’s like the Eastend circa 1660.

This depressing metaphor for ‘work’ is in stark contrast to the sublime activities of the weekend. Take last night, for example, when IC and I had dressed crab and smoked fish-pie for supper, we drank Prosecco and Amaretto and smoked roll-ups in my spotless kitchen. A single candle burned on the table and we discussed our little heads off until the world fell silent about us. Then this morning reality vomits in my face when the office fridge is breached.

Friday. Frank and I met up for a jar at the local. After recounting various holiday tales I returned home and got deliciously mashed which struck a nail in the coffin of Saturday morning. No bother. I pottered about tidying and re-arranging aspects of my dwelling and walked to fucking Sainsbury to get some shopping. Not having the van anymore I was surprised to discover that with the aid of a rucksack I could shop with weight/bulk impunity and by the time I returned home, despite the cashier looking at me as if I’d just fallen from the moon, I was normal again.

I unpacked and set off for Hackney, the journey was swift and pleasantly aided with bits of Guardian and a book. I arrived at IC’s exactly at 7 and met her sister, ICS. Before heading out for dinner we three along with a mutual friend, Mira, drank wine and nattered in the kitchen. I was feeling right nice when we sat down in the bustling restaurant to eat. IC, ICS and I ordered food and spent the next 2 hours giggling manically and gorging our gobs with fine and reasonably priced Italian fare (bottle of wine, starter and 3 mains for 35 quid). Once again I opted for the pizza, once again the standard of this much fucked-about dish was beyond expectation.

I was home by midnight and went to bed exhausted. On Sunday, following a kipper the size of a sperm whale, I jumped on the black bitch to visit my family at my sisters in the brooding Surrey countryside. The ride was fast and clean, the long left hand corner just past Tolworth on the A3 can be taken at 120 with a tight lean angle and balls, I discovered. The adrenaline kick was long lasting had me physically shaking. It’s better than Morphine, really.

My niece is now one. Zoning in and out of an awareness that everyone was there for her, we spent a pleasant afternoon watching her explore her new toys. The star was a new trampoline, which she quickly conquered before gracelessly bouncing off backwards, causing yours truly to explode with laughter.

I hope her arm grows back.