Oh, diary, have I been neglecting thee?

[...]

My diary's lack of response indicates that I've been sent to technological Coventry. I've actually been in untechnological Nottingham.

The weekend started very promisingly when a pizza was “went for” in Muswell Hill on Friday night, and after taking Jenny's order the waiter turned to me and said “and for you, ma'am?” This was excellent. My hair is getting a little shaggy, but I never dreamt for a second that my 1/2 Welsh radiant beauty would lead to hot blooded Italians mistaking me for a bambino. Anyway, I slapped him and asked him what kind of girl did he take me for… and that a request for a Pizza Alla Rucola would be all he'd be getting out of me. He retreated, shellshocked. I tipped him a fiver. Cheeky boy.

Saturday morning we took Jenny's mum's car without asking (subversive, dangerous teen behaviour from two people well into their thirties) and set off up the M1. Here, for those not acquainted with the M1, is the M1.

We passed the National Space Centre. Amazed that it wasn't called the National Space Center. Why do we have one? Near Leicester? What next? National Glacier Centre? Geyser and Mud Spring Study Unit? Anyway. We were heading for Nottingham to stay in a swanky 4* hotel called Hart's, in the Park area of town, which Jenny was reviewing for her IPC magazine title. This meant we got free accomodation, breakfast, and (luckily) dinner in their award winning restaurant. The award was for record number of men in double breasted suits, I think.

Jenny had a Nottingham bonus as she used to go to university there and wanted to sit in the car outside houses she once lived at and remenisce about boys she failed to impress and essays she failed to hand in on time. Boys are never impressed by late essays.

We arrived at Harts and the lovely hotel manager (Rupert) helped us with our bags . He lifted a plastic bag out of the boot to reveal a video of Pope John Paul II which Jenny's mum had left there (in case of emergency.) (Sometimes a red triangle just Will Not Do.) I avoided an awkward scene – you never know when sectarian arguments will rear their head – by asking about local house prices. Always a good distraction.

I have no smart shoes currently in my miserable collection (one pair of trainers) so lest the posh eaterie turf me out (or worse still, make me eat my starter wearing the enormous Dunce Shoes they keep for these occasions, or make me eat my main course in my vest and pants) we wandered into town to get some. Clark's do a particularly good camper style shoe which I knew would suffice. No fewer than three branches of Clark's within a few hundred metres. We came across this rather pathetic shoe which Jenny said was the kind of thing Tollund Man used to wear. I had to agree.

Anyway, got the shoes I was after, walked back past a shop called “Ethnico” selling all your wind chime and pan pipe CD needs. Ethnico. Jesus. Back in the hotel we went upstairs in a lift made by a company called Schindler.

I need hardly make the obvious gag to you, dear readers, that this made it Schindler's Lift. Insert inappropriate gas chamber witticism here.

The evening passed in a blur of alcohol (which we assumed we'd have to pay for, and next morning were gobsmacked to find that we didn't.) In the bar at about 11pm we found ourselves sitting across the table from a Coronation St actress who I obviously didn't recognise at all; she had the look of someone who expects everyone to recognise her. I chose not to look at her in an “I'd like an autograph” way and let her have any satisfaction, instead I chose a lecherous leer, which I've been working on. She couldn't tell the difference, sadly.

At Hart's they clean the windows with purified mineral water. Just thought I'd lob that in.

In the morning I awoke to hear the news that someone had given the Free French CD an abysmal review on their website. I was upset by this; I take criticism quite hard, and spent a couple of hours worrying what angle they might have taken. I've now seen the offending review, and I'm no longer bothered, it having being written by two illiterate twonks who didn't get past the (admittedly very MOR) first track. If I'd heard the record when I was 18 and my favourite band was Melt Banana, I'd have probably hated it, too. Anyway, HOST are my heavy mob and I'm sending 'em round during the week.

On the way home today we stopped off in Flitwick to see Leighton and Kev. Horse racing was on the TV. Kev wondered why horse racing was still going on in the 21st century. “Why don't they just round up all the horses, put them all in a field, and settle Once And For All which one is the fastest horse. Then we can get on with the golf.” Kev has beautiful flights of fantasy, sideways logic that can't be faulted. Well, it can be faulted, but it would be no fun to do so. Give him the ball, and let him run with it.

Then popped in on parents and sister in Dunstable for tea, then back to N London. I feel like something has been achieved this weekend. And the above lengthy entry is testament to this, I feel. Goodnight, and Bob bless.