Weight unknown, but alcohol consumption known all too well: 8.5 units yesterday lunchtime, and a further 9.0 units in the evening. You can do the maths yourself. I wonder whether this blog may yet attain immortality as a sort of Awful Warning? I suppose I will know that I have finally tipped over the edge when I am too pissed to keep a tally. Still, I have 1,332 days left, theoretically; and I spent the best part of my day opposite The Mousetrap, though sadly without a sign saying “Golf Sale” on one side and “The Policeman Did It” on the other.
Today’s highlights included trying to find a photo booth so that I could obtain the passport photo demanded by a club I am hoping to join, but all the booths I remembered at the tube stations near my former London office proved to have been removed. Another important advance in the War Against Terror, perhaps, or just a fundamental shift in the UK photographic market place? I haven’t a bloody clue. Fortunately I chanced upon a branch of Snappy Snaps, where a nice girl with a digital camera took the photograph for me. And I still looked a total prat, exactly as I would have done if I had been able to stick my coins in a slot and take the picture myself. Then I collected an inordinately expensive pair of new glasses from my optician’s, before meeting my cousin for lunch. He was mainly interested in asking me questions about the Less Tall Cheshire Brunette and in telling me that life is not a rehearsal. “One thing is for sure,” he said, “we won’t be sitting here in 50 years’ time.” How very true, I thought, though I have been in restaurants in the past where it has felt like 50 years by the time they brought the bill.
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