I'm working from home this morning. This flat is noisy! No wonder Isco never got much done here. My privacy has been plundered so often by the landlord that I'm also nervous every time I hear someone enter (slammo!) the front door downstairs. I know he's not great with giving notice of swinging by to do minor repairs and stuff. What if he comes barging in to discover me in bed wearing my husbands floppy jumper, tapping away on the lappytop? Gawd, it doesn't bear thinking about!
I have surprised myself somewhat by how
a) Houseproud I am - I hate for others to see my mess
b) Private I am - don't want anyone looking at my stuff!
We went to a club on Saturday night called 'Feeling Gloomy' in Angel Islington. The flyer ticked all the boxes: Smiths, The Cure, Siouxie, etc. etc. and we thought we'd go for just a few hours and a bit of a dance. Got there, paid our £6 entry and were subjected to this godawful band! They were some kind of 80s-wannabe Suede-esque. SO BAD! The lead singer was all skinny jeans and stripy top and kind of writhed and wriggled around onstage in a very unappealing way. On the whole, very dull.
I had to heckle the emcee for laughing as he introduced this band 'His favourite band'. LESS LAUGHING, MORE GLOOMY I demanded. He heard me and went off on some odd spiel about how they weren't really advocating genuine gloominess, would hate anyone to go home and topp themselves after this club night and mentioned something about the Salvation Army?! Freakin' happy hippy amateurs! Why are they even running a club called that? Why didn't they just call it Sad Monday or something. That would have been a better description and geniune gloom-whores like me would have known to stay away!
OK, rant over.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment