On Saturday Manchester United lost 3-1 to Fulham, at home. I'm so seething about that I'm not even linking to it.
Jimmy said he would be at mine by half six. Quarter to seven, seven o'clock came, but no Jimmy. I was getting a bit annoyed, knowing that he would turn up on the doorstep drunk and argumentative and I could think of a million and one things I would rather do than skirmish with a drunkard. Quarter past seven I rang him; he said he was on his way - shorthand for "I can't talk - I'm driving." He arrived sober, explaining he had fallen asleep on the sofa at his Dad's. I already had my coat, and was on my way out. He said he'd drive to the restaurant; we could leave the car and pick it up in the morning.
Very pleasant meal in the always excellent Hung's in Streatham. I've been going there 12 years. We rounded off in the Crown and Sceptre, the Wetherspoons just near my house.
As we approached my house, Jimmy exclaimed, "Where's the car - I left it parked there! Someone's stolen it!" My mind clicked over, wondering whether he had locked it etc.
"It's in Streatham," I said. I made sure he felt a complete idiot!
As we lay on the sofa, I said I think I had left something in the car - could he go and check it.
We lay in bed and I expressed an urge to carry out an explicit sexual act, right now, in the back seat of the car.
In the morning, I got up just in time for the rugby. Cor, what a cliff-hanger - not so arrogant now, are we, after being run ragged by Samoa?
We went out to Streatham to do bits and pieces of shopping and eat. Jimmy dropped me home because I was planning to go to a concert with Ria, which he didn't much fancy, or rather, he didn't much fancy not having an early night. I lay on the sofa for a while, thinking "I am way too comfortable to go out into the cold dark night," but I mustn't let Ria down. At about quarter to six, Ria phoned, saying she was absolutely exhausted and couldn't go. I pondered whether I should go alone, anyway. I was still pondering when the phone rang again; it was Mother. By the time we had finished, it was way too late to go out.
So I didn't.
This evening I met up with sister-and-family. they are staying in a really rather nice hotel next-door-but-one to my last-office-but-one in Pimlico. It's only been open for six weeks. All rooms have E-TV (whatever that is) with DVD players and a plasma screen, plus CD players.
We caught the bus to Trafalgar Square and wandered around a little. Suddenly we found ourselves in Leicester Square. I can never work why some parts of London are so small and others are so big. We looked at various chain pasta/pizza places. Nephew saw the large numbers of people sitting outside - you know, the typical cafe society of London's West End in nearly-November. But my sister insisted we sat inside. We also suddenly decided we fancied Mexican - Niece had that well known Mexican dish, fish fingers.
There was a huge crowd outside gathered round railings and police officers. I asked the woman on the restaurant's front desk. She said that they were waiting for Tobey Maguire from Spiderman, although she doubted he would be dressed as Spiderman, unless he had a thing for wearing his Spiderman costume on an everyday basis.
The restaurant was Chiquito's, which was okay, although I wouldn't recommend it to Southern USA-ers, or indeed, to genuine Mexicans, if I knew any genuine Mexicans.
