Clear days have found us and I'm out from the fog of work and away from the Smoke for a few days at least. I head North, staying in Wirral - the Leisure Peninsula. On a clear day you can see Liverpool from here. Friday we hit the mainland and I meet up with friends from my old work at lunch and later go to the Everyman to meet other, non-work friends. The pubs are full of people I know. Most people don't seem to know I moved away.
"I haven't seen you for ages," they say.
"Well, I don't get out much these days."
After a heavy Friday night we stick to, well, the sticks. We walk five miles to a lighthouse. Later we decide it was more like ten miles. By Sunday it's twenty-six miles. Sunday roast at the Magazines is delicious. There's a guy sat at the table next to ours, with his wife. He reads damning articles about popular culture and sport in a loud abhorrent voice. His wife looks uncomfortable. "Am I talking to myself," he says at some point, before mentioning a festival, he's clearly 20 years too old and cynical to attend, and exclaiming that there's no bands worth seeing. Boy, I hope I'm not turning into this guy.
Back in that London everybody looks hostile on the tube. At the flat it takes ages to warm up. Work is a million soul destroying tasks, the bank account is empty and you wonder what it's all for.
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