On Thursday evening I don’t go to the gym but I go for dinner with Matty and Nicole and Niles and Elliott. And we go to Brown’s in Covent Garden where I have a starter of carrot and asparagus soup, which reminds me why I don’t eat soup, followed by a hot chicken salad with garlic and chilli, roasted red peppers, crispy bacon and avocado, with a side of creamed spinach – none of which I actually enjoy, but I pick on, while everyone else is eating either bacon cheeseburgers with chips or steak, mushroom and Guinness pies and chips. I really don’t understand how they can do that to themselves.
Especially as Elliott reveals at some point that when we all used to live together in a big house in west London, he would sometimes go running having wrapped cling film around his waist, to lose weight. And when he ran out of cling film, he would wear a plastic bin bag around his torso instead, having cut holes for his arms. Well, maybe with fewer pies and chips he wouldn’t have to do that, but I’m not here to judge – in fact I think he should keep doing it, because it’s funny.
In the end we pay and tip the waiter normally, because we have no complaints – no wait, actually I take this back, my story is that we do NOT tip the waiter for no reason whatsoever and we leave. Hopefully this will piss off the wait staff who read this blog a bit more.
On dress down Friday at work, I decide for the first time in weeks not to wear some ridiculous preppy outfit (i.e. chinos, loafers, some combination of pink and green) and turn up as a normal person in jeans and an Abercrombie t-shirt (don’t worry, you can’t tell it’s Abercrombie) and…
…just before lunchtime Pam has this idea that I need to pose shirtless with her toy cow in the toilets and have my picture taken, which I have no reservations about, so once again we lock ourselves in a cubicle and:
On Saturday morning I go to Borders and read a Bret Easton Ellis interview in V magazine, flick through last month’s American GQ and ask if they have Time Out Athens (they do, I don’t look at it) and then I go to the gym.
In the gym some guy who’s doing bicep curls with a bar and looks very straight and quite sexy asks me to spot him, which is something that always makes me curious. When somebody walks up to you in the gym and asks you to spot them, are they definitely gay, or do they actually need help? And if they are straight why would they ask me, I look kinda gay anyway, I would have guessed they’d avoid talking to me.
Then I get back home, where I watch TV and make plans to take a sleeping pill at 2200, set my alarm for 0400 Sunday morning and go to bed, because