I’m in my pajamas. I never got out of my pajamas.
“We don’t cook in this household anymore,” Brian announces, correctly. Just two days ago my downstairs neighbour, who is broke, offered to cook for us. “You get a lot of takeaways. I could cook for you.” “We are both very capable cooks, Christine. We are just being extremely lazy.” I think she wants the company and the ingredients. We are entirely after the convenience and the fact we can spend all Sunday in our pants.
Meanwhile my accountant shows me the reality of my tax return and I’m gonna be broke again in no time so I’d better start battening down the hatches. Today I can temporarily justify spending every penny I made from Hello Kitty on a Dishoom, but when the lucre runs dry I’ll look at that decision in a very different light.
This morning, before the Dishoom, I considered paying someone to cook something I am perfectly capable of doing myself. Breakfast is an easy cook, and easy to do well if you can be bothered to go to the shop. In Brighton maybe it’s nice to go out because cooking meat at Lou’s is off the menu. But here, in the place I’ve attached all my bad habits to? No need.
I’ve got a week before I go to Stratford. Just a week. I might be able to sort my life admin out, feed myself cheaply, tidy up a bit… It’s not very likely though, is it. Someone might want to stay in my room. They can’t if it’s like this. Oh and there’s a cat coming on Tuesday. I’m sure she’ll add a degree of unknown to proceedings. Important to have cats around though. She’s a pedigree breeding mum that’s just been retired. Black as night. It’ll be good to have some company in dreams.
I had the day off I wanted. Nothing happened, I spent money, I consumed things. Now another week is about to happen and it’ll be a busy one.
AlBarclay 