On my way to the osteopath this morning, I walked through a pocket park where two dogs were playing. One of the dogs was no bigger than my foot, whilst the other was a giant St Bernard, which looked remarkably like a bear. It was intriguing to see the little dog seeming so exquisitely unconcerned by the power and size of his friend. The two owners looked on, profoundly amused, as the little one attempted to jump onto the big dog's back in a sort of sparring-cum-mating ritual. I believe that's what you call punching above your weight!
After osteopathy, where I was crunched and battered for the best part of an hour, I sat and worked in my favourite Starbucks in Borough. You'll all be relieved to hear that Starbucks has officially announced Christmas. There were little glittery trees all over the counters and a special Christmas-flavoured cappuccino was being promoted like a boy band on its last legs. I could do without Christmas for at least a couple more weeks!
It became apparent at one point that I needed the loo, and as the sensation slowly grew, I found myself repeatedly glancing over at the queue for the single-occupancy unisex cubicle, hoping every time I looked that it might have got a little shorter. Of course, Sod's law dictated that the more desperate I became, the longer the queue got. There seemed to be a never-ending flow of Japanese people coming off the street specifically to use the facilities. Heaven knows where they'd all been or why they were all Japanese, but there they were... Queuing. Eventually I resigned myself to actually joining the queue, astonished by how long some of the people were taking. Women particularly. I mean, what on earth do women do in loos? I had visions of some of them having poos, and being too embarrassed to open the door immediately, and spraying perfumes and wafting their arms around for hours to disperse the smell.
I went into Central London and continued writing in a cafe on Wardour Street before meeting Nathan for a late lunch, astounded by the change in the weather. It is now incredibly cold: 15 degrees cooler than it was on Hallowe'en and dropping. Icy rain dripped down the back of my neck and made me long to be back home, curled up in the sitting room.
The plaudits and congratulations continue to come flowing in following last night's award. A lot of people seemed genuinely pleased that I finally seem to be getting some sort of recognition for my work after having slogged my way through the first twenty years of my career. I do hope this is the case. I want a mortgage and a pension like everyone else I know. As we walked back into our bohemian garret with threadbare towels hanging on the doors, and damp patches on the ceiling, we both wryly commented on the irony of having just got back from a glitzy televised award ceremony. Seconds later, Nathan turned to me and said, "don't we get to do the most amazing things?" And he's right. We do. And I would trade in all the luxuries in the world for my life right now.