I start every holiday like this: I intend to do many exiciting things in London, and write them all up, and make everyone jealous of the fun I’m having, because what’s the point of a holiday, if other people don’t know how much fun you’re having? And invariably, I do nothing terribly exciting, and don’t bother.

But still, I am, once again, going to try. And in fairness, if I do do anything exiciting, this should throw it into sharp relief, because this is dull:

Got home last night, to find I had the house to myself, which was a bit of a surprise. Went to the gym, then came home and watched the last episode of Sex in the City, just to make sure it was really over. I have a mild dislike of that show (and most of it’s ilk) but it’s entertaining enough in a “shout irritatedly at the telly” kind of way. And since I had the place to myself, I did exactly that, because I really didn’t like the fucking ending. Complete predicatabilty from start to finish is not the way to end on high note. It was exactly what I expected, as well as being pretty piss-poor, so there was quite a lot of shouting at the telly. (I may have been drinking, too.)

Then I got up this morning and broke my whisky glass. Not the best start to the day. So I went out for breakfast with Warren Zevon and Bill Hicks for company, which cheered me up. Later, I am going out to have coffee, and then [REMINDER] on to John’s/my/anyone else who happens to be chronologically appropriate’s birthday drinks. (Locked post prior to this one has the details.) I may also buy a new whisky glass.