Call Waiting

Wednesdays are my new Saturdays. A break from the computer affords me the opportunity to collect my thoughts and stock up on provisions while the supermarkets are less busy.

Instead of the aisles being jammed with swarms of locusts in human form there are usually only old biddies who can easily be bumped out of the way on the way to the checkout.

With tourist season on the wane, Central London is less congested. Soon the pavements should be free of gormless clumps of people, scratching their heads and looking every which way as they consult a street map and inevitably stumble off in the wrong direction.

At Oxford Street underground station a couple dragging their mewling brats were looking for Leicester Square. Which is probably what happens when everything you know about London’s street plan is learnt from a Monopoly board.

Lured into buying a DVD, I stop off to catch up with my Virgin girl, hearing about her holiday while a queue forms behind me.

On the way into town I spent the journey scribbling notes in the margins of the draft proposal, wondering if Our Friend In The Know is going to get back to us.

On the way back home I read the London paper. Sudoku and the cryptic crossword apart, I catch a praiseworthy review of The Black Dahlia, which opened the Venice Film Festival. Given it’s based on the Ellroy book, there’s no way I’m going to miss it.

Which means that there is a Brian De Palma film I actually want to go and see.

By early evening I find out that after emails and calls from Work Buddy, Our Friend In The Know suggests a possible meeting tomorrow, dependent on whether he can rouse himself from his sickbed.