Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Let Go Outside
I leave home round about 6.45, to be at the gym by seven. After my workout, I avoid the Wild Hunt of commuters streaming out of the tube station for an early start at my desk, located in an open-planned basement into which no natural light is allowed to intrude. Lunch is rabbit-food snatched from the canteen (also in the basement), and the next hour or so is spent in the glare of my monitor, either writing this blog, or, more probably, reading yours. I return to the Outside just after five, in time to catch the moon rising in a starless, light-polluted London sky.
I would like to imagine my drained and sun-starved pallor is the height of vampiric chic, and lends to my appearance an air of menace and undead glamour. I secretly suspect the fact that the only sunshine I've seen in weeks has been the weather installation at Tate Modern, is making me behave like and resemble nothing more than a crumbling, grumbling reject from a George Romero movie, unfortunately more Max Schreck than Tom Cruise. I need to change my routine. Or at least get an office with a window.