Bloody hell it's Monday.
Went to glorious Cheltenham on Saturday (in a car no less! fancy!) to see Greg Dyke speak at the Lit Festival. Cheltenham is a mad place - utterly beautiful but looking as though every other building is an overgrown doll's house. It's also, as J2 pointed out, a fantastically un-useful place if you want a bottle of water. Crabtree and Evelyn - check, East - check, assorted glitzy pizza places - cher-eck, but score zero for newsagents. As if anyone in Cheltenham collects their own paper! Really.
Greggie was on good form once he got going and bloody Gillian Reynolds had stopped her sycophancy ("I remember Greg, that dinner party we were at with your lovely partner blah blah blah, when you said blah blah blah") CEASE YOUR INFERNAL PRATTLE WOMAN. He was pretty frank about Hutton and how angry he was about the whol affair. Unfortunately the room was so warm and dark and I'd been working the night before so I fell asleep for the last ten minutes. Useless fool.
J1 cooked a damn fine roast chicken yesterday which gave me vitamins and protein and all sorts of things you can't get from chocolate bars alone. We toddled along to Shot in the Dark with his housemate and engorged yet more vitamins and a shed-load of cream with a smoothie - mmmm. Went to Bloc Party gig later; sold out so lots of upset indie kids looking traumatise by the fact a band they liked had sold out. What? More than three people went? You lie! Damn good gig anyway and scribbled off a review for a website at lunchtime.
I am now a desk-bound lunch eater. God help me.