Pass, Shoot, Goal

Another hot day and the drunks on the Finchley road sit drinking on the same bench; sometimes there are two of them, sometimes five. It's a strange place to sit, at the corner of two main roads. It's not even that near the Off-licence. And the TV shop opposite isn't showing any football (England are out and they were atrocious). Why don't they go to the park? it's nice there. Perhaps they get hassled by the police. I saw one of them the other day picking up cans and bottles and putting them in the bin. If he asks I'll write him a positive reference, which he can show to the park keepers if they doubt his character.

On a similar subject, Andy Wright is rumoured to be in London. The Andy Wright you ask? The guy who went through twenty driving instructors and passed his test under the instruction of one Henry Hips? Yes, him. So anyway I'm meant to meet him today but for some reason the text message he sends me at lunchtime doesn't arrive till 8PM. I ring him and he's wandering through central London looking for Parliament Square. He's in Holborn appreciating the architecture but unsure of where he is. Seconds later he's in Drury Lane and then another few seconds and he can see Trafalgur Square. Is he walking or flying?

At least he's not on the tube. They have become very fond of announcing that in hot weather you should carry a bottle of water with you. The other morning a woman was stood on the escalator, the step above her reserved for her bottle of water. Andy and I are meant to be meeting Thursday, so there should be a story to tell then. Especially if there's booze involved.

Notices on trees

Summer in the city and there seem to be a lot of notices pinned to trees. There are the ones advertising the fetes and the other day I saw one where people were looking for a flat. A strange enough request to pin to a tree, but the tree had huge hanging branches which obscured somewhat the trunk it was pinned to. I reckon those people lived in the tree. Next time I pass I'm going to throw a stick up and watch those house hunters fall down like conkers.

Today's a hangover day. You know how it is, a couple of drinks with friends from work and the next thing you know it's 11pm and you're hanging around the underground station being told the Piccadilly line is closed for the night, so you have to take the Victoria line, which is going to mean a walk the other side.

Everything is so much more difficult on hangover days. The queue at the bank, behind a mother with two kids shouting about wanting a donut. Shut up. And I feel less inclined to go to the decent supermarket and go to the rubbish small one in search of sausages only to be greeted with a big empty freezer shelf where the sausages should be. Then you have to think of an alternative which isn't easy because your brain is determined to have a day off from thinking.

So I scurry back to the house and drink multivitimin drinks. Yeah, as if that's going to make me feel any better. The football should do it later though. It's England's first game in the world cup. I'm not going to watch it at the pub though. I can do without that commentator you get, you know the one, the one who always insists on standing right next to you screaming about how it should be played. They hardly even bother looking at the screen. And it's always some fat sweaty middle-aged bloke who if he even so much as kicked a football would have to spend the rest of the night in out-patients.

No, first match indoors - a good seat, and food and drink you don't have to queue for. I might go and pin a notice to a tree about this. Why not? Everyone else is.