Sunday, November 05, 2006

smoker's cough

Saturday, with one of my best mates and I, vvegged out on booze and little sleep, barely able to stop the television screen from floating into the wall. A presenter, a woman whose voice we had muted, baked a cake.
I have spent the weekend not doing anything. My house move is tickling the memory, like a smoker's cough scratching the throat. Today, a cold, drizzly Sunday, I am determined to buy boxes. Start the week with good intentions.

Friday night was a friend's birthday do. Before that, I was in the pub, with lager, and a free jukebox. I raised my glass to all those I call the closest friends: in tribute, I let the music speak; Nirvana, Interpol, Bob Dylan, The Charalatans, The Killers, Oasis. I know Sunday seems to be spent getting sentimental, romantic even, but I only say it because its true. My best friends know who they are, and I wish them all the best.