Standing at the window looking out – as I am wont to do on
most slow Fridays – waiting for our old, creaky coffee machine to piddle out water for my cup of tea, G. asks me if I am ‘talent’ spotting.
I do not ask what exactly he means, but there can be no ambivalence here. The coffee machine sits right next to a large window, with a view which although largely taken up by monolithic grey, granite buildings does include enough of the perennially busy street to provide a feast for sore eyes on most days. Unfortunately on this occasion there is no talent to be spotted. It is that nearly dead period just before lunch hours kick in across the city where most serious talent is locked behind desks squirrelling away at work rather than strutting their stuff across the streets. The clear nip in the air also means that what sparse talent there might be is very well covered up, the skimpy summer outfits now replaced by coats and scarves. G. and I moan about the weather – it is predicted to hover between 10 and 14 degrees all weekend with a smattering of showers here and there; hardly the kind of weather to inspire any serious weekend plans. The darned autumn I suppose.
Early on Saturday morning, I drag myself out of bed, plod in my slippers to my kitchen and grab my now regular morning cup of water. All around there is a dense greyness – thick and heavy like a cloak smothering the horizon – which does little to assuage my lethargy.
In the end, I just about make it to the gym – the sense that a rubicon of sorts might be crossed if I don’t make it for a third straight Saturday is the coup de grâce to my vacillation. It is my regular bit of self-flagellation where my keg-bearing, barely-fit self inevitably ends up flanked by delectable, incredibly fit, well-toned women in skimpy outfits seemingly designed to promote their prime assets. As always, these fine specimens of the human species proceed to run at great speeds and for extreme lengths of time whilst I lumber along. In my defence, I am keen to not hurt my knees again – at least that is how I deal with being hopeless at keeping up with these goddesses.
Having flopped about and pretended to run for all of forty minutes, it is home time for some cereal and yoghurt (surely I am not the only one who has a liking for steaming hot oats doused in fat free yoghurt). I run a hot bath and proceed to get my hovel of a room into a slightly more habitable state. An hour later, various items of clothing have been stashed away with the laundry popped into the machine; at which time my conscience is sated enough to allow me go see a movie at the Beach Boulevard. This time it is About Time, the Richard Curtis film about a time traveling bloke who uses his powers to re-jig his countless faux pas in the quest for love, helping his London host become a renowned playwright by helping the lead character remember his previously fluffed lines. It reeks too much of Love Actually to me – there are only so many ways you can juggle a mix of philosophical voiceovers, Bill Nighly, British accents and a sappy love theme. Not that I mind too much though, given I have re-watched Love Actually every Christmas since 2006 *cringe*
That sets the tone for the rest of the weekend – football manager on my MacBook, re-runs of the Big-Bang Theory and extended BBM sessions with the kid brother are the only things I get up to till it is Sunday morning and church time.
Not bad going.. I think…