Hardly Hedonism


And now the hedonism begins. No fits yet, Mum, hedonism my style is ridiculously tame.

Friday was lots of Japanese food (girly lunch at Ikkyu with Victoria and Jolene, exorbitant dinner at Yo!Sushi with Russ, Gareth, Matt, and assorted friends of Gareth and Matt), some forgettable pub in Soho, and the ever-reliable Gallery at Turnmills, which yielded an excellent set from Anthony Pappa, and further addition to the growing body of evidence that my hair is too butch (picked up/groped by: 3 girls versus 1 guy. No fits here either, Mum, this cold bitch never reciprocates). Getting accosted and followed by Eurotrash from Tottenham Court Road to my doorstep while walking home alone around 5 am after parting with Russ and Gareth was rather unsettling, and, I suppose, more Mumfit-worthy, but thankfully he didn’t try to follow me in.

Saturday was quiet and practical. I woke up at four, did extensive grocery shopping and laundry, cooked a cabbage-dominated dinner aimed at stopping exam-related scurvy in its tracks, and spent the rest of the evening making a sprawling Things To Do, Places To Go and People To See list and reading the Hieronymous Bosch book I bought in Madrid last year and hadn’t got round to looking at yet. Incidental music: Dan the Automator hijacking Xfm, Modest Mouse, and Elgar. Some time after three, I put on Joyzipper (a band, not a sex toy), curled up with Love In The Time Of Cholera, and eventually drifted into sleep, refreshingly dreamless after a week of three nightmares.

And there you have it. Hardly hedonism.