Same old, same old

A very lovely soft wind has been blowing all day today and there's a rather milky, hazy light in the sky. It's the sort of whether which delivers the scent of flowers! On my way to the gym I was almost knocked out, first by a honeysuckle and then by a rose. Sadly I don't think it'll be long before it begins to rain. But looking on the bright side, at least the rain will wash away stagnant water from our alleyway!

I saw two horse-driven hearses making their way along the Archway Road in the length of time it took for my bus to arrive. There seem to be a lot of these types of funerals passing our flat. I don't know which cemetery they're heading to, or where they come from. It's a practice I associate with the East End, so can only assume it's old East End Jewish people heading off to Hoop Lane cemetery in Hampstead Garden Suburb. One hopes they've not travelled all the way from Bethnal Green. That would be quite a journey on the back of a horse!

I'm afraid my days at the moment are all rather rolling into one. I wake up, I have a bath, I eat breakfast, I work on the kitchen table, I have lunch, I go to the gym, I go to the cafe, I work, I walk home, I work, I watch telly, I sleep.

Today I read an article about a woman who breastfed her eight-year old child. I know nothing about breastfeeding, about its benefits and everything, but I'm pretty sure a child who can remember being breastfed is going to have some pretty major psychological problems... Particularly if it's a boy. I think there comes a time when a woman needs to acknowledge who is benefiting the most from breastfeeding.

I didn't realise England were playing tonight until I switched the telly over to see if there was anything on before Grand Designs. By this stage we'd lost our match to Uruguay and everyone seemed both surprised and upset. At a certain point, instead of saying we played brilliantly but were robbed (there's always some excuse floating about), we should acknowledge that our squad is beyond awful, send them all back home with their tales between their legs and stick a load of second division players on a plane to Brazil who actually understand what it means to play in a team. I guarantee they'll do better. Routine humiliation is all that's required at a time like this. They'll soon learn to be better. But there again, what do I know about football, other than that it's a game for peacocks and poofs!?

Ps - when did they start calling IKEA ickea (to rhyme with sick queer?)