My weight is like Gordon Brown’s popularity on a day on which no opinion poll results have been published; I have no firm information on what it is, but I strongly suspect that it is anything but good. To add credence to that, I got through 10 units of alcohol yesterday. No wonder I have only 1,280 days left of this unequal struggle. Today I was mainly in Transit (but luckily not in a Ford van).
Though in fairness, the back of a Transit van might have been slightly roomier than the 10.49 from Lewes to Victoria, which comprised only half the usual number of carriages, and was correspondingly well filled. We ended up standing by the doors with our luggage until I made an uncharacteristically ruthless dive to capture the seats vacated at Hayward’s Heath by a spectacularly fat bloke, who had required one for each of his vast buttocks. We caught the tube from Victoria and the LTCB hopped off at Euston with a parting cry of “Love you!” which might have been an unprecedented and important declaration, or an uncharacteristic slip of the tongue. I decided to allow myself to be cheered up by it and not to overdo the analysis.
It started raining more or less as soon as I arrived home. If it had not done so, I would have expected the heavens to be occupied by one of those apologies which used to be rolled out so regularly by the BBC in the 1960s: “normal service will be resumed as soon as possible."
The amazingly unlikely true story of how a grumpy old man and lifelong bachelor won the love of a beautiful young woman and started a family – and all by writing a curmudgeonly blog about his lonely journey to the grave.
Now who would have predicted that?
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