Here’s the daily reminder for Best Reader Body competition, send your pics to london. email@example.com, rules here, closing date Friday 8th August.
On Friday there is some work, although mostly yawning (after the night which took sleeplessness to a ridiculous new level) and after work there is some gym, although with very little motivation.
Then I go home where I pretend to watch TV and do such things as “eat” and “have a shower”, even though I’m mostly focusing on the fact that I might have to go back to work on Sunday.
At 2014, I receive a text from A Girl, who’s still in the office, and A Girl says: “I’m about to cry. I’m leaving soon but my computer just crashed. Sunday looks very plausible. I’ll let you know”
Quite instantly, at 2015 (I really will hang on to anything, whatever I’m thrown really), I reply: “Please do. We’ll make a day out of it. I did not just type this, but I have nothing better to do”
Then A Girl says (2022): “What on earth will we wear? I’m thinking casual weekend wear”
Then I say (2023): “I’m not sure yet. But I’m starting to panic”
Then A Girl says (2027): “We only have about 40 hours to work this out. Clearly not enough time. Good luck. I’m off to have my neat whiskey now. Double please”
I spend Saturday mostly on my own, so I: makes some calls about Sydney flights / go to Tesco / go to the gym where nobody I’m attracted to is even there to cheer me up / arrange to meet Mean in the evening.
Then Saturday evening comes, like every Saturday evening does, and to go out I’m wearing: loose fitting knee length denim shorts from H&M, dark green wife-beater from H&M, white socks, white basketball Nike Air Force trainers.
I hate wearing wife-beaters outside a sporting context these days, even though there was a time when I would never go out without putting on one (when I first came out and I thought that having big arms was a major achievement that everyone should know about), but this Saturday is very, very warm and I kinda need to. Regardless, I still feel a bit of a twat.
So what we do this evening with Mean is: Mean buys me an ice cream, we walk around a bit, we go to some pub and sit outside, Mean has a beer, I have some water, we walk around a bit more, I go home.
On Sunday morning, I start texting A Girl nice and early…
I say (0952): “Yesterday was an OK day, but there was something missing. I have now come to the bitter realisation that I need at least a daily fix of office death – no wait, life. If you do go in today, let me know”
A Girl says (1011): “Normally I would feel the same as you of course, but I only got 3 hours of sleep and I would prefer to sleep all day. Nevertheless, I will be getting there around noon. Company much appreciated”
Then I get dressed (denim shorts – again, I have no imagination this Sunday morning – blue polo shirt, white espadrilles) and catch the tube in.
I spent the next few hours a) actually working, b) occasionally looking at the packed swimming pool outside the window, c) warning A Girl that if I accidentally fall out of the window and crash head first into the sunbathing deck several floors down, she should tell everyone it was NOT an accident, I’d planned it for months, and they are to blame.
Then I go to the gym.
At 1650, A Girl texts: “I’ll be here for another couple of hours, then I may shoot myself. Or I guess whichever comes first”
I reply (1700): “I will take it as another cruel joke by the script writers that a cover version of That’s When I Reach For My Revolver by Moby came in my iPod shuffle as I was reading this”
A Girl replies (1708): “I suppose the fact that as I was reading your last message Morrissex (typo, but I’m leaving it) Dear God Please Help Me was playing on my iPod can’t be part of the script at all”
By this time I’m home where I spend 97 minutes trying to decide whether I should be Channing Tatum or not. Answer: Yes. Yes I should.