I got my black bitch back, Christ she looks wonderful, freshly shod and overhauled she feels brand new. The bill for the service (and extras that I wasn’t expecting) was astronomical, so much so that I could justify 60 quid on the new gloves I bought –my credit card is now in rehab.
After a day in the office I shot home with my loved one tucked under my bag and got ready for the evenings romantic engagement. Myfwt, looking beautiful, and I, looking like one of the Corleones, took a cab to Knightsbridge to arrive at the pre-booked venue bang on 8.30. The mood and décor of the place reflected my garb, though the atmosphere was a lot friendlier. We were served champagne before being invited to eat. This was gourmet stuff, small portions of former sea-dwelling creatures, none of your run of the mill swimmers either -caviar, scallops, lobster…et al, skilfully combined with vegetables that had been excellently fucked about with and in most cases reduced to a mere dribble on the plate. Each course came with an explanation, in one ear and out the other after a while, as Myfwt and I drank ourselves potty. The subsequent over indulgence in the Fleurie and the small portions of food resulted in the evening ending on a bum note, but I have no regrets, save the fucking bill.
Friday began with hushed apologies and I got up and set to work on the flat whilst Myfwt nursed the end of her hangover with BBC1’s unemployed-offings. When I was last signing-on it was all ‘programmes for schools’ in the morning, archaic black and white costume dramas and threadbare homemade soaps in the afternoon, perpetually punctuated by lifetimes of dour business news. These days it’s all gormless chat, wacky antique features, goofy home improvements, zany property shows with a myriad of time wasting catch-ups in the vast arsehole of digital TV.
I popped on Radio 4 and got on with a good clean, I needed to make the flat as instantly ‘this is nice’ as possible. This was achieved by dusting, scrubbing, bleaching and re-organising/disposing of various items, Myfwt saved the day by hoovering, a task I despise more than the thought of Hitler and Danny Dwyer enjoying a friendly pint, and virtually impossible as my fucking back had gone all shit. By now it was early evening, it had taken me nearly 7 hours to achieve my aim, I took myself off for a quick pint with Frank and his missus whilst Myfwt opted for a leisurely swim at the gym and we re-convened for a simple supper of Piqued’s Prol Pizza.
On Saturday lunchtime an estate agent came round to value my flat, I got what I expected and Myfwt and I went off to see the mortgage bloke who I really must say is a little camp treasure. The rest of the afternoon was spent reading and watching TV, pottering with a smile, essentially, and at 5pm we set off to tread the dubious streets of Woking.
The journey was dreadful. We missed the bloody train and had to wait nearly half an hour on a freezing platform surrounded by swarms of less than pretty Chelsea fans, themselves a world away from the well-heeled streets that surround Sloane Square. The train took an age to arrive at our destination but I’m pleased to say Myfwt friend Penny greeted us with fresh garlic bread, salmon and dill ravioli and wine, of course. It was a lovely evening but I’m less than impressed by Woking, it seems that the younger residents have been hairdressed by a lunatic and their clothing was all a bit too Hollyoaks for my taste. We briefly nipped out to a pub, which was staffed by morons and whose clientele epitomised fake tan, highlights and furious onanism.
Mercifully we went back to Penny’s and finished off the evening, and the wine, in comfort before Myfwt and I took a surprisingly soporific and well-timed journey back to London and home to bed.
Sunday was perfectly dozy, just as it should be; we lazed in bed for a good long while with breakfast, tea and telly before being ejected from our pits by sheer restlessness. Myfwt went off for a swim and I did a spot of writing and I hopped on the black bitch for a spin. I popped into Louche’s house for cup of coffee and slice of fruitcake on the way home and rode back framed by a shimmering lobster coloured sunset that was distracting to the point of danger. Melancholy has never looked so beautiful, I thought before realising it was Sunday and that my brain was sitting in a cold bath staring at the dripping tap…
When she arrived back Myfwt took on the cooking duties, she made a hearty warm tuna salad and introduced me to Jerusalem artichoke, which I approached with scepticism and, after deciding they were delicious, consumed with alacrity. The evening was spent lazily reading and watching cooking shows on More4, it was a pleasant unremarkable night, as good as it gets when staring into the teeth of a working week.
It’s metal Monday…