bulk :: 16st 1
cigarettes :: 0
joints :: 2
alcohol :: some
runs :: 3 (which is quite good. I'm back in the saddle but not quite fucking the horse as I'd hoped. Next week maybe.)
swims :: 0
chocolate biscuits :: 60 (damn supermarkets and their 2 for 1 offers. Damn my lack of self-control.)
unsavoury thoughts concerning Audrey Tautou :: 0 (OK, OK, 40)
This morning - for reasons not really worth going into - I found myself on the Old Kent Road. Whenever I'm on the Old Kent Road, I understand afresh why it's the cheapest property on the Monopoly board. It's like the part of London that evolution forgot. As such, it seems like the perfect location for an existential crisis.
I was over the road from the Tesco. A pub called The Lord Nelson had what appeared to be two fresh bullet holes in one of its windows, each giving way to separate spider webs of shattered glass. Across the street a group of desperate-looking people were waiting for a bus. One of them - a man in his 40s with lank grey hair and an old suit - suddenly stepped out into the road and threw what appeared to be a stone at a passing bus. It came out of nowhere this act of aggression, and it was all the more surprising for this guy's seeming semi-respectability. Witnesses shook their heads vaguely and looked away. He stepped back onto the pavement, like butter wouldn't melt.
An old man on a bench, looking not quite all there, struggled to light a cigarette he had just constructed. He was in his 50s, grey skin, short spiky silver hair and beard, a can of what looked like Kestrel in a brown paper bag between his knees. I hung about by a nearby bus stop watching him. When he finally managed to get his cigarette going, he folded his arms and stared straight ahead of him, fag hanging from his gob, smoke dancing into his face, and I thought that thing that I think a lot, that thing that everybody who thinks about other people thinks a lot. I thought, 'I wonder what's going on in his head'. Probably nothing of interest of course, or else he probably wouldn't be sitting on a bench on the Old Kent Road drinking warm Kestrel at 10am.
But you never know.
I looked away and saw someone staring at me. A well-dressed young Indian woman. She had exactly the same expression on her face that imagine I had. A mixture of polite enquiry, patronising pity and outright disgust. She looked away. I looked away. I looked back at the old man. He was looking at me. He looked away. I looked away.
What the fuck am I doing here? I thought. And I went home.
So. That was the highlight of my Friday. The Old Kent Road. Like the freak carriage in the opening dream sequence of Stardust Memories. Sometimes South East London really brings me down. I'm sure it's less grim up north.
Keith is away for the weekend.
I don't know if it's coming across at all, but I'm feeling dreadfully sorry for myself. Thank God for chocolate biscuits.
Have a good weekend.