29 September 2006

patchy update

The sun, when it appears, is autumnal. The summer sun has said its goodbyes for the year. The dew sticks to the grass until well into the afternoon, if it evaporates at all.

Life is full of pleasant distractions at the moment. There are birthday presents to design, menus to create, cats to feed and the like. Last night I went to the grand opening of a stylish new bar/restaurant in Edinburgh. Free champagne flowed and some excellent canap├ęs served as my meal. It's nice to be able to hover around the fringes of the wine trade still, grabbing the odd freebie. Beautiful waitresses bringing stylish trays of mouth-watering food. I didn't even need to talk shop - just chat with my mate and stuff my face with great grub. There was some society photographer taking candids and I think every pic of us we have a mouthful of fishcake or spring roll. Ah well. For posterity and all that.

While last night was lovely, yesterday morning was hell. We stayed up too late on Wednesday, having feasted on mussels, roast chicken with all the trimmings, fine wine, whisky and healthy dollop of beer as well. It was grand. Gilmour and I decided we would have made great uni flatmates, though separated by 4 decades. We watched Sean Bean sort out corrupt English army types and the French in Sharpe's Regiment. Then we remembered we had to be up at 530 to get to the airport in time for Gilmour to catch his flight. We got up. I drove. We were well on our way on the M9 when Gil checked and realised that his tickets and passports were in the kitchen. A half-hour delay and we get to the airport, and all's well. Except for the ride back home, which was swamped by the swelling tide of Glasgow morning rush hour. I retreated to bed. I meant to sleep for only an hour or so. I slept for four.

Tonight was meant to be a dinner party. But there are only two of us attending. It's my fault. I decided this morning it would be a dinner party, which is a bit late. As all of my friends are cool, it was foolish to think they'd not have plans for a Friday night by a Friday morning. But I don't really operate along a weekly calendar. Most weekends I find myself doing as much work as the week, if not more. This is a hangover from the wine trade, where working weekends was a matter of course and even Sundays weren't sacred. Days off fell arbitrarily. I toyed with the idea of taking weekends off once I started writing, but it's failed. Mainly because it's a good time to catch up on all the stuff I failed to write during the week. But also because I have difficulty resting. It would be different if I had some sort of contract to fulfill, if I had a deal. Then I could let it go: bask in a guilt-free Saturday and Sunday, writing nothing but Amazon wish-lists. Until then, I will write on weekends. Or at least feel guilty when I don't.

Light reflected in the window in the lounge

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