Monday, January 19, 2004
For the first time in I can't remember how long, I had no chores and nothing planned for the weekend. No deadlines to meet, no domestic admin to catch up on. My flat was so spotless my mother would approve, and even last November's ironing was all done. Each outstanding task on my "to do" clipboard was neatly ticked off, and I felt ever so pleased with myself. Two whole days to myself, forty-eight hours packed full of impromptu promise and spur-of-the-moment opportunity, and the suggestion that said impromptu promise might just speak with a French accent as well.
So of course, this was the perfect weekend to get hot and sweaty in places I really don't like being hot and sweaty. My temperature has been pushing triple figures, and, when I haven't been lying down with a bag of ice-cubes on my head, I've been unglamorously crawling on wobbling limbs from bed to bathroom and back again, resembling nothing more than something from an early Quatermass. I have Lemsipped myself into a stupor, eaten more fruit than is properly good for me, and the only French Promise I've had is the wording on a pack of garlic capsules.
There. That'll teach me to be such an insufferably smug git.