At some point last week I began a garment-specific version of the Countdown. While getting dressed in the morning I found myself thinking, “This is the last time I will need to work Suit A into the rotation.” Then B, then C, and so on and so on until all days are casual and I make one last visit to the dry cleaners to have the suits cleaned and packed away like an expensive bridal gown from a doomed marriage.
Not that any of my suits are either literally or symbolically white. This wasn’t my first trip to the altar of commerce, and I doubt it will be my last.
Which is why I’m having my suits cleaned rather than burned.
I will catch up to Venice, but first:
Dear Wankers on the Victoria Line,
You’re better off playing Metallica on a ukulele than on the crap speakers of your cellphone. But thanks for sharing for six stops.
Still getting home from work late and in no fit state to commune with humanity, even the folks I’m super duper fond of. I worked all day last Saturday and spent Sunday assembling furniture, as you may have gathered below. And this weekend — which starts tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. — I’m running off to Venice and I’m not bringing my laptop. A brand new notebook will have to do.
More on Monday. Really, because I know at least one of you will come after me with a baseball bat if I don’t have a decent report to offer on my return.
I bought the Weeds soundtrack recently, mostly because I wanted a bright and shiny (thanks, Technology!) version of the Malvina Reynolds song “Little Boxes”, but a quick spot check revealed a few other tracks I was also interested in.
I put it on while I was assembling bookcases and was caught by an almost but not quite too sweet song redeemed by cheeky lyrics. So in the middle of the 873rd Righty Tighty, I amused myself by warbling along, “the little-ass birds sing the pretty-ass songs” (repeat, repeat, repeat).
It wasn’t until I looked at the track title that I saw it’s actually “the littlest birds sing the prettiest songs”, which is so disappointing I will carry on with my version the next time I’m tempted to sing along.
Two nights later I had the soundtrack on again, and while rushing down the hallway my foot caught on a stray bit from the giant pile of cardboard my shelves came packed in. I did one of those comedy forward flights where all four limbs are in the air before the gravitationally mandated slamming of knees and hand heels.
Then followed the adrenally mandated of moment of breathlessness during the autonomic evaluation of just how much damage has been done, which I usually find worse than than the actual damage.
I caught my breath and rolled over. I was staring at the ceiling when I noticed the track had changed and Martin Creed was moaning “I can’t moooooove” (repeat, repeat, repeat).
I’m now in the habit of skipping past the Sons and Daughters track “Blood”, just in case.