sleap

Well I suppose it was inevitable. My fucking back is being a turd. I’m not sure which of the regained stability manoeuvres, following a slight slip, ballsed it up, but I’m fairly sure it was coming into work on Friday morning where the road leading to the office resembled Innsbruck. But, really, it wasn’t that bad, you’d be forgiven for thinking London was about to enter a second ice age if you believed the screaming scaremongering from the weather centre. London was due to be under about 20 feet of snow last week, admittedly, we had some but nothing like the vast quantities forecast. Indeed, this week ‘the big freeze’ was expected to continue but it simply hasn’t. What is the point of weather forecasters; last week was a write off in terms of my office-based employment based, largely, on inaccurate prediction. Still, I can’t complain that much, I had two days out of the office.

My weekend began and ended in the local in Hackney. On Friday Mary, Paul and I skidded out for a few pints and entered a time warp, it felt like we’d only been in there for half an hour before closing time forced us out. This phenomena could be accounted for by insomnia which has been fucking me about for the past week, I had 2 hours between Thursday and Friday and last week my average nights kip was about 3 and a half. I’ve no idea what brought this on, I’m not particularly fussed about anything, I’ve not been eating late, am feeling generally healthy and what have you, it’s just I wake up at 4am and can’t bloody sleep. It’s so, well, boring. I had visions of my winding up like Christian Bale in The Machinist, all thin and pale living in a cloud of yellow sodium lighting and confused terror.

Saturday morning-ish I met Mary and Paul in the café for a fry-up, I think this remains the perfect way to start the weekend, and after a spot of shopping and cleaning my bro arrived for a viewing of The Thing on my spanking new home-cinema blue ray wotsit. Peter joined us as we got happily baked in front of eye shredding joy, I’m looking forward to indulging in plenty more of these sorts of afternoons. I was due to attend Red’s party on the other side of town but a combination of lethal pavements and yet more doom-laden (and inaccurate, I hasten to add) forecasting from the fucking weather forced me to abandon my plan. Instead I went to IC and Mary’s flat with Peter and ate Italian cheeses with some wine. A bunch of Russians arrived to see Mary but the impromptu mini-party was curtailed at 11 or so when everyone buggered off to some club. Again, back worries prevented me from attending; in addition, IC was due home early the following morning and wanted to be able to say ‘hello’ to her without gurgling.

After 3 hours bloody kip and lots of lying in bed blinking, IC appeared at 8am remarkably fresh for 24hours solid travelling. Marvellous. I didn’t see her again until lunchtime and following smoked salmon and spinach on muffins, topped by a ruddy poached egg, we went for a walk across London Fields and took tea in a café at Broadway market where I had a unspecified panic attack, bizarrely. It passed quickly though so we went back home whereupon IC struggled vocally with the controls to Grand Theft Auto. At 5-ish we went back to the local and bumped into Mary and Oscar eating a giant roast in the dining area. They joined us for a farewell weekend drink and that was bloody that, the weekend gone in a flash.

I had to come into work on public transport yet again this morning; I’ll have forgotten how to ride Brutta by the time I get my mitts on her again. Balls. Did I mention my back is being a cunt?