Wednesday, 24 March 2010

Boxed on the ear, stabbed in the mouth

It’s been a long old day and I don’t feel like I’ve achieved a great deal. I’m writing this on Nathan’s Mac because my computer seems to have broken down. It’s been nothing but trouble since I bought it and because I’m now on a Mac, everything is suddenly in the wrong place on the keyboard and it’s taking me an age to write anything. I'm incredibly frustrated... and blighmy, would you look at the size of this font!?

I wrote in the Rustique Café in Tufnell Park today; my old local from the days when I lived on The Fortess Road. It’s a literary café, which means it’s lined with books and various paintings for sale. I remember when it opened. It was run by a bohemian American Greek woman and I thought it was the most glamorous and artistic place I’d ever visited.

Later in the day, I went back to the gym and was horrified to find that after 2 weeks of jippy tummy, I’ve not lost a pound in weight! I was hoping there was going to be a bright side. Obviously not.  

Went to the dentist and had my teeth scraped and cleaned. A bizarrely pleasurable experience even though I thought she was trying to carve her initials into my enamel. She went at it like a woman possessed and at one point I felt like she was actually driving the sharp water-spurting machine thingie directly into my gums, and more horrifically, enjoying it. I refused to give her the satisfaction of yelling out loud. I’m never quite sure why they tell you that the blood you hoik up in the little spittoon at the end of the experience is a result of having “slightly inflamed gums”. The sadistic woman just spent ten minutes scraping sharp objects around my mouth. Surely that’s more likely to be the reason I’m bleeding?

I’m currently going through the automated hell of trying to book a Travelodge room firstly on line, and then on the phone. We’re trying to get a family room for Hilary’s wedding on Saturday, but it’s an almost impossible system to use if you’re looking for something that specific. Why can’t I just phone a number and talk to someone in the hotel I want to stay in who can give me options if they’re unable to help me with my first choice? And for future reference, Travelodge phone lines cost 10p per minute and the recorded messages go on and on till you’re ready to slit your wrists.

Nothing much was happening on the Pepys front 350 years ago. He may have been on board the ship, but the fleet was staying put in the Long Reach. Pepys spent the day working; writing letters etc, whilst various people appeared on the ship, drinking and having supper with the crew. At the end of the day, Pepys’ footboy, who’d been employed at the same time as Mr Burr the clerk, dropped a can of beer (which sounds very modern, but is actually the name they used for a sort of metal jug with a lid) all over Pepys’ papers and ruined many of them, causing a great deal of extra work all round. Poor boy got boxed on the ear as a result. 

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