I believe it was Frank Sinatra who said that he felt sorry for people who didn't drink, because waking up in the morning was the best they would feel all day.
Monday, London, lunchtime, dressing gown, headache, self-loathing, thoughts of malice towards Ol' Blue Eyes.
It's not that I've sunk into some Bukowskian netherworld - it's just that I've overindulged, overslept, inappropriately texted and generally worked towards making myself a less impressive being in the eyes of the world. On the plus side, I didn't smoke ... I forgot that. Did I mention that I've given up? Everyone's doing it - it's the new smoking. And like most things preceded by "new", you can still do it occasionally and claim that you don't.
So despair has turned to triumph: I might look like a wreck but I smell pristine. And ... here's another excuse ... Sunday night is actually my Friday night. Weekends are usually taken up with driving my daughter to my mother's, going swimming, appealing to my daughter not to be so scatological - at least in front of Nanny - and generally being bitten, scratched and kicked. If it wasn't for the fact that Nanny gets up with the lark, and spends some quality grandmother-granddaughter time with Ava, these weekly excursions could finish me off.
Talking of scratching, this weekend we took the cat with us. She's still a kitten and can't be left home alone for two days. Anyway, Ava decided to let her out of her basket on the way home. I would advise anybody in a similar situation to maintain feline incarceration, no matter how much it promises to curl up quietly on the back seat. I imagine that driving on the M4 with a cat on one's head might be a contravention of the road traffic act, most things are ... he says, morphing into Jeremy Clarkson. Still, this was the first car journey in ages where I haven't witnessed major carnage.
The search for a third Mrs Moore is not proving successful. It appears that the ecologists are spot on - there are NOT plenty more fish in the sea. Overfishing has depleted stocks, now even the humble cod is a delicacy. To continue this maritime metaphor, I am imagining dark, dangerous, deepwater creatures with spines and prehistoric teeth lurking on the sea bed, devouring any poor sap who happens by. If this sounds sexist or fishist, I apologise.
On a musical front, I am sawing with Luke Haines this week, as his never-ending tour hits the drive-home-able counties. Apologies to the north once again, but the prospect of sharing a bed in a Travelodge with Britain's most misanthropic man was too much to bear - especially in light of the preceding paragraph.
I'm getting up now. I think I might go to the pet shop and buy a goldfish. Sound safe enough?
