Parries → Wetherspoones and Raisins 

Well, it wasn’t a day to write home about, yet that’s what I’m doing, hinnit? Janja and Klement came by to drop off their laptop as they bus up to Bristol for the weekend. I’ve no idea why they think it would be safer kept in our street-level housie than in their attic apartment, but it was nice to see them. And it was a free wake-up call, an opportunity to bring the daily schedule a little back in line with that of the living. Klement’s a nicht owl as well, and they arrived at 9:30am, which means they probably arose at 8:30, and since he said he slept 3 hours, that means he went to bed even later than I did. Why do we do it to ourselves? When do we wee boys get over the tee-hee fun of being able to stay up as late as we want? The computer monitor compounds the stickiness.

He wanted me to read over an email he was sending to a professor with whom he’d just interviewed for doing his PhD. “Thank you for taking your time to interview me,” is how he began. No that’s not right, said I, sipping strong tea just brewed. It’s “Thank you for taking your time in interviewing me.” Though that wasn’t really the gist was it? I did suggest closing with something humorous specific to the couple of hours they spent together, to signify common humanity, but he a) didn’t think there was anything, and b) thinks it’s understood they share common humanity. I guess he’s right; maybe I protest too much. Klement the Polite didn’t want to discourage me completely however so he suggested, for humour, writing “The thank-you email” as the subject line? I didn’t think that would do. I’m careful of offending people these days, damn it all, and, well, no, I don’t really see much value in the humor of pointing out the meta-ness of what one’s doing. Quasi-funny when you’re a young geek but still never more than one step beneath sophomoric.

I did however step out the house a second time to buy chocolate raisins next door in Kensington St. That’s it, no more, I’m not doing that again. £1 and I consume the whole pack. They’ve got whey powder in them, le-kol ha-ruchot (“to all the winds”, meaning “dammit”), which makes them as addictive to the tongue and brain as Maltesers. I think. Though having just googled the term and expecting corroboration of my suspicions of its nefariousness, I see none. I thought it was maltodextrin but I see that’s not overwhelmingly nefarious either, just a corn derivative. Where are all these food additives responsible for my sluggishness and blotch? It’s not me what feels sluggish, it’s the food. Honest. I wasn’t sluggish when fasting. Okay, well, maybe I was, but a different sluggish. Not sluggish. Slowed. There is a difference. And if you don’t believe me you’ll have to try it.

The first outing was to Wetherspoone’s for cheap good English breakfast, creating a nice frisson by bringing the first issue of Private Eye to have ever crossed that establishment’s threshold no doubt. Great stuff, as I read it over breakfast. I will subscribe, as the song goes. £1.50 biweekly on the newsstand, 92p delivered to the house. Just reached over to look at the not-quite-used-up issue, but oh the disappointment when unravelling it to the cover I see what I’ve actually picked up is Friday-Ad.

My Dad called to tell me about some socks he bought. No, really. But that’s not unusual. What was unusual is that in describing them he referred to the “left-hand foot”, a phrase I’d only just seen in the Colemanballs section. Funny old world.