It's 9.33pm and I haven't seen anyone all day. An unusual thing, when you think about it. The fireworks on Clapham Common last night were fun; if 'fireworks' were to mean the rest of the evening apart from the actual fireworks. Carrie, Sophie, Jeremy and Lauren came along to the obsessively planned and executed party / gathering at Sarah and Jim's, which certainly made for interesting conversation. What is the technical difference between those two? (A party and gathering I mean....not Sarah and Jim.) Call me a feeble-minded, odious old fool, but sitting around drinking with good friends and having a few laughs now seems much more fun than shivering, soaked, in the queue for Inferno's. Maybe it always was. Anyway, the mulled wine got me quite drunk. I felt very middle class.
Also, Jeremy and Lauren very kindly gave me a lift home.
Today though, has been different. At one o'clock I found myself in a curiously bohemian idyll, and quite the epitome of weekend pretentiousness. Imagine if you will a portly and self-loathing auteur lying on his sofa smoking a cigarette, reading the selected short stories of Rudyard Kipling with half an eye on a muted Tottenham Hotspur getting brutally and emphatically emasculated by a resurgent Bolton Wanderers. A fresh green tea is steaming idly on the coffee table, and Janis Joplin spins slowly on the record player, with little crackles between tracks. That, essentially, has been my day. There is nothing further to report. No new knowledge has been acquired. No new battles encountered; to be won, or lost. Maybe then the net result isn't so bad.
Of course, I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been thinking of you, Octopus. But that, as always, is neither here nor there. I hope you are well, and happy. I hope that you enjoyed Imogen Heap last night. I wonder (seeing as I introduced you to her music) if you thought of me. Probably not.
Anyway, goodnight.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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