'Real-writerish'

Lorraine and I like to lurk in bed at the weekend, but I had a hospital appointment this morning. Still up after Beth had gone to work, and Olivia had headed northward without me saying goodbye to her.

The hospital something else to twitch about, but Lorraine came with me, and the consultant and nurse were absolutely charming and friendly, and once I was seen I was all done in about twenty minutes. Colonoscopy to look forward to shortly. Home we had a nice brunch with Sam and Jade at home, Jade scraping the burnt toast, and all of us hanging about in a relaxed way in the kitchen. I've really enjoyed having them stay, and good to have time to chat to them. Then we dropped Sam and Jade near the station, with fond farewells.

Then on to Hove to get a new tyre for the car, siting in it, as they jacked it up and replaced it. Sitting there watching blokes go about the business of moving tyres about, and listening to the blaring pop music gave me a Proustian flashback to working in Casio Warehouse when I was in my twenties. The endless radio, and the constant boredom.

One of those 'real-writerish' days today. The 154 anthology of Shakespeare sonnets and poetic responses finally arrived after they'd had a nightmare with their printers. Some of my chums in there as well as my poem. I don't like my poem any more. Anton texted me to say that the Dylan/Ronnie human interest story, quoting me, was on page three of the Daily Mail. Duly bought the Mail, and the Brighton Argus, where there was an unsympathetic three-star review of the play, a bit of a reality check after the splendid two four-star reviews had yesterday. I googled 'don't read your own reviews' and reading the results felt better.

Lorraine, whose already full-on work week had been augmented by the play, needed rest this afternoon. I had a glorious nap too.

Then off to Steyning, via Anton's house to collect Anton, and we had an evening with Dawn and her mate Charlotte. Some lovely grub, and a few mojitos. Anton explaining about his new diet, which is 400 calories of fruit every day, plus three pints. He is looking thin. Then a walk around the village. Dawn took us to a tent in the middle of a field, where there was a latin music DJ, but it was all dead. Lorraine very tired, and Anton's skin crawling at the idea of having to salsa. 

We drove home not long after, having parked near the SME factory, home of the world's finest toner arms, Anton said. Something to do with record players. 

Then home and the gold sofa. Lorraine watched some bleak Welsh cop show ending on someone throwing themselves off a rugged Welsh hill, and we went to bed.