When life is miserable, it’s okay to spice a Thursday with some gin and sparkling lemon water. Now I’m gently tipsy, have finally put on some laundry and the dishwasher is empty, and The People’s Key is rattling through our flat.
Work is dragging on and I’m not sure how long it will be before I find a successor to claim my threadbare secretary throne. Every day I’m dreaming of faraway locations and unfathomable adventures, or just of simple pleasures such as spending a day at home with our French press and the steady clickety-clack of my keyboard. Yet every day I find myself, inescapably, pressed up against sweaty strangers on the DLR, shuddering beside sniffling zombies on the District Line, and sighing forlornly before a screen which is shouting at me, ‘same shit, different day’.
This morning I started reading Getting Stoned With Savages, where the author is trapped in the horrific daily grind of Washington D.C.’s banking world, when he realises that he is not a “soft Italian leather shoe man” but a flip-flop man, and escapes to the silent, white beaches of Vanuatu. I can’t help but think that everyone would be better off in flip-flops, sipping coconut water under a cordial sun.
Mike and I went to Greenwich for a spontaneous date night. Mike was cute as ever and I had butterflies in my hair. Greenwich, true to form, had nothing much to offer, and after considering various menus and meal prices, we ended up in our much-trusted Wetherspoons, where fresh-faced students were catching up after a long Christmas break.