Good Night, And Good Luck

Type… check… count… delete… edit… *sigh*… smoke… type… count… type… count… *SWEAR*… smoke… coffee… count… scratch head… scratch arse… smoke… type… count… save… close… open… read… *sigh*… smoke… type… count… save… close… submit… smoke… nap!

Can you tell I can’t really be arsed with this writing lark at the moment? Thing is, there’re about five other blogs I read regularly and EVERYONE seems to be feeling the same apathy. It must be something in the water… as they like to say on increasingly-crap-tv-drama, ‘Invasion’!


Last week, I relayed the sorry tale of how I spent Saturday night home alone watching the 100 Greatest No.1 singles with only a pepperoni pizza for company. Imagine my surprise then when this week I was flooded with offers to go out and do something more exciting at the weekend…. eh, hang on a minute – did I just type “was flooded”? Sorry, that should have read “almost universally ignored to the point of humiliating rejection”. However, I did receive one message from an old friend whose tender words seduced me into changing my normal Saturday routine.

“Right then you lazy git. I’ve had it up to here with all your whinging,” she texted with flowing prose worthy of Shakespeare. “Get yersel washed and dressed on Saturday ‘cause I’m taking you for a day out in Edinburgh.”

“Thanks very much. That sounds lovely,” I replied politely, all the time wondering why it was necessary to both wash AND dress on a non-work day.

Plans were put in place involving food, drink and a cinema visit and things began well enough with a lively round of dodge-the-mad-feckin’-shoppers-on-Princes-Street as we slalomed our way to the nearest trendy coffee shop. As luck would have it, I had recently re-mortgaged the house so could afford to purchase the two, large, exotic beverages (and muffins) and was a tad disappointed that the exorbitant price didn’t include diamond encrusted cups.

No matter, because next on the agenda was a bracing walk to the top of Calton Hill (that’s the one with the half-finished Greek temple at the top) to blow away the cobwebs and take in the panoramic views of the capital. This being March, I had plundered my spring wardrobe to dress in the classic combination of jeans, t-shirt and ridiculously thin jacket and as I wheezed my way to the top, I realised this ensemble was not going to be adequate to combat the Arctic winds sweeping the city. Indeed, had we stumbled across anyone requiring help with cutting glass, I was now perfectly equipped with the nipples to complete the job.

With time to kill before our film was due to start, I conjured up soothing images of pubs full of malt whiskys and roaring fires. My companion had other ideas though and knowing I was too cold to utter a protest announced, “I need to pick up a couple of things in John Lewis.” What she failed to clarify however was that for every 2 things that are ‘picked up’, there are 200 things that apparently need to be browsed, sampled, tried on, inspected, caressed, rejected and then tried on again. By the time I slumped into my cinema seat to watch George Clooney save the world (again), I was ready for a long nap.

The day was rounded off in a fine style though with a visit to one of those stylish tapas restaurants. Looking around, I noticed that the food was served in small dishes so I ordered enough to keep me going for the rest of the night. When it arrived, my dining partner, to my horror, thought nothing of casually reaching over with her fork and helping herself to a sample from one of my dishes.

“It’s traditional,” she explained without a hint of embarrassment. “Tapas dishes are designed for sharing.”

“SHARE? FOOD?” I bellowed through a mouthful of bread, spraying the neighbouring table with crumbs. “Don’t you know me AT ALL?”

Luckily, the 16 dishes I’d ordered seemed to be enough to compensate for the shock and I arrived home with a warm glow after a highly enjoyable day. Which just goes to show - I really should get washed AND dressed on a Saturday more often.