I’m not exactly sure what my size twelve caboose and I are meant to be doing with our two days off and its already turned Sunday morning. Sure the usual double-strength organic Scottish breakfast awaits, as do the usual pre-tea tremors over whether the new waiter will understand the tone of my voice when I say I want it really really strong. Last night was spent indoors admiring Captain Janeway’s justification of placing her whole crew in jeopardy for the sake of a child that one of her crewmen didn’t realise existed some five minutes earlier. Before that it was Bhoj takeaway for one, a bit of the Jacksons (not from my original vinyl because of course mother dearest threw all my records out the second I left home), and the few hours before that were spent lazing on the steps underneath a sun that was having difficulty making up its mind whether it wanted to shine or hide.
Not that I was complaining about the lack of rays, as those twenty minutes spent under vitamin E’s influence was enough to roast the tip of my nose. So a whole day zipped by without having accomplished all that much. No new romances with sticky endings or winning lotteries so I could buy the QE2 and take it for a spin around the Greek isles. Not even a fifth division win so I could take a snoop along a certain Swedish company’s aisles. Just a bit more of the safe same and a feeling that I should definitely, most definitely, make this Sunday a day to remember.
Now if only I could remember what it was that I had to do to make it memorable!
The yet-to-buy-a-lottery-ticket Ms M.
