Yesterday late afternoon Myfwt finally rang. The conversation was very welcome if a little subdued to begin, it ended on a better note, I could actually feel my internal organs modulate during the call.
After arriving home I hastily changed and went immediately out, grabbed the tube to Leicester Square where I’d arranged to meet an old friend from work, I say old friend but she’s actually a young friend, though one with a wise old head, that’s not all wrinkly or bearded. Like Gandalf. She looks nothing like him.
We went to a pub on Monmouth Street and had a couple of beers before heading off to a large Italian eatery on the corner of Longacre and St. Martins Lane, called La Belle-Ende or something. I ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio, which was absorbed with lots of Italian meats and a pizza the size of a dustbin lid. Next to us were a couple of Dutch bankers, they seemed utterly devoid of the stiff wankery of what constitutes ‘a banker’, certainly in England. Indeed both were engaging and amusing and I warmed to them instantly, something I’m not used to doing. We four chatted for a bit and after the wine was gone left for a nearby bar.
It was a bar I’d been past plenty of time but had never been in, I was surprised at the vastness of the place, it resembled the interior of a gothic castle though the potential visceral atmosphere was ballsed up by the chirpy Latino salsa shite. Nonetheless, it offered secluded booths and space away from other patrons.
We drank a few whiskies and ginger and chuckled over recent TV ‘comedy’, without being specific, and chatted unkindly about some of the twats in my office, which is where I know her from, incidentally. At about 11-ish we went our separate ways and I was forced onto a train stuffed full of pissed up city workers and cunts, largely. The train trundled underground for what seemed like an age. I was forced to abandon my book on account of two English speaking Polish girls discussing their private lives at a volume just short of the start of the British Grand Prix.
Finally I arrived home where I foolishly indulged in a large G & T as a reward for not throwing a wobbly on the train and as result I’m hungover. On a more positive note, I had a solid shit this morning, the first in 4 days, I would like to say it was a relief but it was like trying to force a Monkey’s head through a keyhole, it landed in the chod bin with a splash that David Hockney would’ve been proud to record on canvas.
This one is all about a Hoover