(FRIDAY. 5pm) -- Almost the weekend, the city beckons and I have a revelation. The problem with Friday, I realize, is that it’s too far away from Monday morning (the last one, not the next). This means that by the time it comes around you’ve already forgotten how awful you felt crawling into work after last weekend’s self-abuse, and you’re ready to do it all again.
Looking at the problem from all angles -- and I have – the only solution I’d say would be to extend the weekend through to Tuesday, better still Wednesday, so that our hangover looms larger in our memory come Friday and we can all do the honourable thing and stay in. I’ll suggest it to the government.
Tonight I’m going to the Tate (London’s biggest contemporary art gallery) for a drink with my mate Casual Rob. ‘Late at Tate’ the event is called. In a nutshell, it’s an opportunity to wander through an art gallery with a beer in hand. Casual Rob tells me the prospects of meeting refined and beautiful bachelorettes (he puts it slightly differently) are fair to good. Though judging by the Sahara-like drought that has afflicted my love life (or lack thereof) recently, I put my own prospects at poor to God-awful.
The long distance from Soho to the Tate means I’ll have to leave Lady Di chained up outside work (see picture of her loitering near Carnaby Street above). She’s looking a bit sorry for herself recently, what with having only one functioning brake and that wobbly front wheel. Fear the trip to the Southbank could be a bridge too far (literally, if Lady Di gives out when I’m crossing the Thames). Really must get that front wheel fixed.
Looking at the problem from all angles -- and I have – the only solution I’d say would be to extend the weekend through to Tuesday, better still Wednesday, so that our hangover looms larger in our memory come Friday and we can all do the honourable thing and stay in. I’ll suggest it to the government.
Tonight I’m going to the Tate (London’s biggest contemporary art gallery) for a drink with my mate Casual Rob. ‘Late at Tate’ the event is called. In a nutshell, it’s an opportunity to wander through an art gallery with a beer in hand. Casual Rob tells me the prospects of meeting refined and beautiful bachelorettes (he puts it slightly differently) are fair to good. Though judging by the Sahara-like drought that has afflicted my love life (or lack thereof) recently, I put my own prospects at poor to God-awful.
The long distance from Soho to the Tate means I’ll have to leave Lady Di chained up outside work (see picture of her loitering near Carnaby Street above). She’s looking a bit sorry for herself recently, what with having only one functioning brake and that wobbly front wheel. Fear the trip to the Southbank could be a bridge too far (literally, if Lady Di gives out when I’m crossing the Thames). Really must get that front wheel fixed.
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