It's that time of year again. The time when we look out of the window and hope desperately for an Indian summer ("These Indians coming over here bringing their summers...I blame the government") in the curiously ridiculous British belief that it happened last year it's "bound to" happen this year.
The evenings are getting noticeably darker - my staircase is dark before seven. Yesterday afternoon I enquired whether the back door was open - I felt a draught and had to put socks and a light jumper on. It wasn't.
We went out on Friday night to our local curry house, which is a rather good one. Our visits there are often slightly marred by the seemingly ubiquitous presence of the local pimp, a thoroughly nasty man, who thinks it makes him a better man because he can control his women. Fortunately, he wasn't there this time.
When I was younger, I used to opt for hot curries, but of late I have been favouring the milder ones. I decided, for a change, to go for a Madras. I was armed with water and requested that they left the yoghurt-and-mint dip. But the Madras posed no problem, so next time it's Vindaloo. Jokingly I said to the waiter "You don't do Phal?" He said they could make one up specially for me!
It's actually a great place to people-watch and eavesdrop. Unusually, we did not know a soul in there. There was a group alongside of us - early twenties. It turned out that at least one was an actor - I think another was a dancer. The actor explained "It's acting but pretending that we're not acting..." I thought that was the whole point of acting...! But actually, I got the feeling that he has a part in one of those "the words are spoken by actors" documentary type things. Which usually shows some of the worst acting on TV, in my view.
I spent much of the rest of the weekend parked in front of the Goggle Box.
