Today I am mostly:
Listening to a girl I work with flirt with the work experience boy (whom I took an instant dislike to when, in the lift, I asked him if he was doing work exp. here. He said ‘Yes, are you?’ I glared at him and said ‘No. I work here.’ it’s my own damn fault for wearing jeans and trainers to work). And I just realised I used the word 'work' about 15 times in that one anecdote.
Stealing my work-neighbour’s nuts/wheat-free chocolate cake/jelly babies
Wondering if the nuked pizza I had at lunch is the reason I’m feeling delicate in the stomach region
This weekend was the first truly hot weekend of the year. Picnics are the order of the season, and I’ve already had two in the space of three days. Friday night Steve and I got a ton of food – quiche, pork pies, bread, cheese, pate, and a Greek salad I brought to work – and went to St. James’s park. In spite of the aggressive drunk making the rounds of picnickers, it was perfect. We sat under a giant, pale pink blossoming tree and drank a tiny bottle of M&S red wine, and then we walked across the giant gravely square (what is it called?) that opens onto Whitehall.
I spent Saturday returning a very late library book, picking up my dry-cleaned winter coat so that I could put it in storage and (hopefully) it won’t get eaten by moths, and lying on a towel outside the Imperial War Museum reading the paper. After a couple of hours, when I was cooked to a crisp, it was ice-cream time. The Mr Softee van outside the Imp does the best, creamy, light-as-air 99s in the land. Plus the guy running it that day was doling out foot-high cornets, which was fine by me. In the evening I saw the boy, and we had a pint of London Pride at my local, the Ship, before attempting to get a fupper* at the Windmill Fish Bar. However, as they don’t seem to want drunken Saturday nite custom from hungry lushes with money to burn and a craving for cod, the Windmill Fish Bar closes at 9pm. Hmph. Went to the Thai place over the road instead (it was that or Pizza Express, and I can get that any day of the week), which was nice but did nearly make me cry with the spiciness of its curry.
Sunday was all hot and muggy, too. A stroll around Cannizaro Park was the only thing I wanted. This park was such a part of my childhood: I’ve been going there with my family since I was about two, and I’m always amazed that most people have never heard of it. It’s beautiful, with little walkways and steep brick steps and narrow paths overhung with branches. There are flowers and an aviary and many sorts of trees and a duck pond. After our walk we were hungry, and Wimbledon Village isn’t really Safeway territory, so we spent a tenner on bread, cheese, ham, olives and a single pork pie (organic but overrated! Dry as dust and needed to be swallowed with swigs of wine). Watched the dogs and children on Wimbledon Common and tried not to think about Monday morning . . .
* fish supper. Do keep up.