Monday, June 30, 2003

Do you know that it’s still possible to get a vodka and tonic in London for £1.40? I kid you not: this place (scroll past the vampires…), where the Kray twins used to ‘socialise’, serves them to swing-dancing Bogart clones and homesick Poles.

And if that link didn’t work I am giving up. I did everything right! Didn’t I? I did the href bollocks and the > jazz and everything… If it didn't work it's the spaces or lack of spaces that are tripping me up. Stupid spaces.

Back to the weekend. Much of it was spent comatose, as every time I lay down or even perched in a vaguely comfy chair I passed out for about two hours. Hence large chunks of the last 48 hours are a blur, and the enduring memory of the past two days is of repeatedly waking up achy, discombobulated and crabby. Also, as I am convinced that I have every hard-to-diagnose disease going, I decided that I had ME and would have to take the next five years as sick leave, and spend them in bed, reading, eating ice cream and watching telly.*

In between the extended nap that was my weekend, I managed to:

Go to a swing-dance party where everyone was a professional dancer, so me, The Boy and our friends just sat around drinking and feeling sad ’cos we can’t dance worth a damn.

Sunbathe in the gardens of the Imp while eating ice cream and trying not to fall asleep.

Wash the bathroom and kitchen floors with my new mop, and them wash the bath, and then the toilet, and then soak the shower head in vinegar to descale it, and then for the love of God somebody make me stop before I tidy away all evidence of life in my flat.

Read more tips from the “How to do everything in the world for a pittance” book (remember the soaking your feet in urine tip?).Choice morsels were: ‘Blankets make good curtains!’ (Yeah, if you live in a junkie squat); ‘Tired of your old jacket? Hang it in the garage and tip a tin of paint over it! This will give it a new lease of life!’ (Swear to God.); and, my fave, ‘If you are taking your children for a day out, dress them in matching outfits, so that if you lose one (my italics), you will easily be able to describe them to the police.’ Now, I don’t have the time or the webspace to point out everything that is wrong with that tip…

Went to a barbecue with ladies who did this . Falafel was eaten, plans were made, and Eton mess, the most sexalicious pudding ever, was devoured.

* Am not mocking those afflicted with ME. It must be a bitch to sell to your friends, family and employer, who think you’re just a lazy-ass skiver. Seriously though, supposedly “symptom-free” long-term illnesses are, like tongue as a foodstuff and London house-prices, God’s idea of a sick joke.

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