January 23rd - January 30th 2005
Sunday Red
Saturday Noted
Friday New range
Thursday Haggle
Wednesday Full
Tuesday Bugged
Monday Arse
Sunday 30th January 2005
Cool: I have a reader.
Saturday 29th January 2005
If Diana, the Ballet, why not Blunkett, the Musical, you ask. Why not indeed?
Friday 28th January 2005
Cowboy cosmetic clinics will face tough new rules
I think someone's been watching too much Andy Warhol. (But I dare say they'll feel at home with the new range.)
Thursday 27th January 2005
(Provided they have balls of steel.)
Wednesday 26th January 2005
I think I gave up making to-do lists somewhere around 1982, when I realised that if I had to remind myself to do something, it probably wasn't important enough to waste time on.
Which is not to deny the undeniable sense of achievement to be had from executing mundane tasks that have slipped off your mental DoThisOrDie roster. As with this Monday when I:
woke up early (ie in daylight)
launched into another episode of housework (please welcome: the south-east corner!)
updated Blogadoon
introduced myself to eBay for the first time, made a bid for something I've wanted for ages, and failed to get it (of which more later)
took a disco nap
caught the bus to Liverpoool Street and made an appointment to do something I've been putting off for, ooh, five years or so (of which more later)
bought two rather fine shirts in the Hackett sale
bought coffee beans ("Do you wan' them grinded?")
verified that Carphone Whorehouse had absolutely no idea how to fix a long-standing problem with my voicemail
kept the appointment I'd made earlier (nothing scarey, I promise you) and paid £310 for the privilege
caught the bus to Whitechapel
popped into the Post Office to see if there was any sign of a parcel I've been expecting for three months, the contents of which, almost certainly, are now benefitting some young Post Office employee with a retarded sense of moral values, may he or possibly she rot in hell
bought a ladle in the pound-shop
procured a refund on a crap scanner from PC World that turns out not to have drivers for OSX
tried and failed to find a decent scanner
tried and failed to find a decent webcam
tried and failed to find a credible digital camera
tried and failed to get a well-deserved drink in the Black Horse, just across the road
spent an aeon floating round Sainbury's flipping delicacies into my trolley (and inspected Every Single Product on the shelves of the cleaning product aisles, which is downright scarey)
came home, concocted, and ate, a prawn salad whilst waiting for the limescale-remover I'd bought to work its highly-effective alchemy on my toilet bowl (I wonder if it works on teeth?)
went into work for an hour or so
popped into the Swan to see what their new Monday night thang is like (me and the five other people there weren't impressed - but at least I finally got that drink)
walked home and watched a bit of tv
created this graphic, to illustrate a review of John Updike's Villages:
and went to bed.
I may take the rest of the year off.
Tuesday 25th January 2005
No shit, Sherlock
Every year around this time, as the nights lengthen and the quality of what's available on television plummets, I slide from being 'only record the occasional landmark programme' (one a night) to 'tape anything that looks remotely entertaining' (so, two a night).
Which explains how I came to be sitting in front of Enemy of the State mid-afternoon yesterday. (Me? I was expecting Ibsen.)
And there's Will Smith breaking a discreet sweat as he tears round Washington DC, discovering himself surveilled every which way, bugs out of his ass, a trail of disabled spycams scattered behind him, a white van on every corner...
And I'm thinking Will's really quite cute in a kind of post-geeky kinda way but this NSA paranoid conspiracy genre's looking so tired these days...when I'm aware of a loud purring from the forecourt outside.
And I open the front door, peek over the balcony and there, parked directly in front of me, is a white van. With its door slid open to reveal a man sat peering at a video monitor.
Spooky.
The occasional cry of "Stop. Back a bit. Go forward.." encouraged me to saunter down to empty the rubbish: a cable snakes out of the van, across the tarmac - and down the drains.
I've heard of having your rubbish bins sequestered and inspected, but this is ridiculous.
(Next week: My television catches fire as I watch End of Days.)
Monday 24th January 2005
I'm not much of a one for women's parts at the best of times, and sport leaves me cold, as you know.
So how come I'm developing this total fixation with Serena Williams's monumental arse?
Magnificent.
Suddenly all those songs make sense.
......previous week
