I decided to finish my accounts today. I have a million and one other things to achieve before Christmas, but this particular task was the one which has been nagging me all year.
I spent the morning photocopying, adding things up and writing cover letters. At 3.30pm, when I finally finished, I'd still not had my lunch, so took myself off to the local cafe for beans on toast. I decided to visit the post office en route, where the plan was to buy an envelope and send the accounts off to my accountant so that I could spend the rest of the day feeling rather smug.
Sadly the queue at the post office was stretching out into the street. The thought of standing there with no food in my stomach was a deeply miserable one, so I went to the cafe, clutching all the papers in my gloved hand which I subsequently dropped all over the floor. The woman behind the counter grossly over-reacted and let out a yelp, which caused other customers to try and help me to pick them up again and everything instantly became a little unnecessary and embarrassing.
They played Gimme Gimme Gimme in the cafe, which was a wonderful treat, particularly when four of the cafe customers decided to whistle along to the famous flute-synth instrumental (the one that Madonna sampled in Hung Up.) The result was sonic carnage. Whistling a fast arpeggio is never to be recommended! The room suddenly sounded like a aviary filled with drunken robins!
Speaking of which, I find myself amused by this year's fashion for tasteless Christmas jumpers. I even walked past a postman yesterday who was wearing one under his hi-viz jacket.
When we got to the theatre this evening, all the ushers were wearing Christmas jumpers. I mean, where do they all come from? I've subsequently been told that today was an official "wear a Christmas jumper" day in aid of a charity. Possibly Save the Children... Or F**k the Parents, as I like to call them.
This evening we went to see the show Julie has produced at the Trafalgar Studios. Miss Havisham's Expectations is a one-woman show performed by Linda Marlowe and written by my mate Di Sherlock. I'd normally avoid a one-woman show like the plague, but this piece cracked along at a very decent pace and was filled with wonderful word play and brilliant visual illusions. Marlowe is a staggeringly good actress. My over-arching emotion, however, was one of great pride. Julie worked her arse off to bring that show to the stage and she did so with great aplomb. I hope it sells tremendously well. These things are always big risks to take. And risk takers deserve great rewards.