A Shakey moment
Last day up in London for a wee bit. I think my normal train was cancelled this morning. So I arrived late, hungover and hypochondriacal for my final morning. However all was well, and I had cleared all the work they'd earmarked for me for the week by about 10:30, so they gave me extra and I gave them good value.
Crept off with First Matie for a restorative lunchtime beer at The Shakespeare. This is a pub forgotten by time and civilisation, sitting unhappily near a major road, and a sprawling Sainsbury's. The folks in the agency call it, much more aptly judging by its jaded clientele, The Shakey.
It is home to about six taciturn middle aged blokes who stand at their usual positions at the bar. It has not much furniture, and what it has is strangely inappropriate. There is a decrepit and unhealthy ambience about the place, but it's handy, which is the main thing. This is where Kate's boss, who is quite a character, repairs to do most of his thinking. Despite all of the above, I enjoyed having a drink there with him and Katie. There is some glimpse of a smeary-glassed eternity in places like this.
Off in the afternoon home, having finished all my work early and was in a good mood. Lots of good stuff work wise on the horizon, and next week off to Guernsey for poetry, walking and other Byronic pursuits.
Tired and exceedingly pleased to be home and sitting on my gold sofa tonight. Persuaded Lorraine to come around and we scarfed crispy duck pancakes from a Chinese takeaway and watched Turkey versus Croatia, which -- for the non-partisan -- was a yawnfest until the last minute of extra time. Croatia having been the marginally better side scored, celebrated wildly waving their red and white checked flags about. Then seconds later Turkey scored too, with what would have been one of the last kicks of the game. This forced a penalty shootout which the Croats lost. Cue cavorting Turks and sobbing Croats. Football is a cruel game.
Last day up in London for a wee bit. I think my normal train was cancelled this morning. So I arrived late, hungover and hypochondriacal for my final morning. However all was well, and I had cleared all the work they'd earmarked for me for the week by about 10:30, so they gave me extra and I gave them good value.
Crept off with First Matie for a restorative lunchtime beer at The Shakespeare. This is a pub forgotten by time and civilisation, sitting unhappily near a major road, and a sprawling Sainsbury's. The folks in the agency call it, much more aptly judging by its jaded clientele, The Shakey.
It is home to about six taciturn middle aged blokes who stand at their usual positions at the bar. It has not much furniture, and what it has is strangely inappropriate. There is a decrepit and unhealthy ambience about the place, but it's handy, which is the main thing. This is where Kate's boss, who is quite a character, repairs to do most of his thinking. Despite all of the above, I enjoyed having a drink there with him and Katie. There is some glimpse of a smeary-glassed eternity in places like this.
Off in the afternoon home, having finished all my work early and was in a good mood. Lots of good stuff work wise on the horizon, and next week off to Guernsey for poetry, walking and other Byronic pursuits.
Tired and exceedingly pleased to be home and sitting on my gold sofa tonight. Persuaded Lorraine to come around and we scarfed crispy duck pancakes from a Chinese takeaway and watched Turkey versus Croatia, which -- for the non-partisan -- was a yawnfest until the last minute of extra time. Croatia having been the marginally better side scored, celebrated wildly waving their red and white checked flags about. Then seconds later Turkey scored too, with what would have been one of the last kicks of the game. This forced a penalty shootout which the Croats lost. Cue cavorting Turks and sobbing Croats. Football is a cruel game.
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