Lazy Sunday

Our ability to utterly get distracted never ceases to amaze me. And when I say our, I mean my lovely flatmate and I. Sunday started with all sorts of good intentions, I was going to catch up on some work (meh) and maybe pop over to Canary Wharf to pick up some bits and pieces later. She on the other hand was going to run, then spend the rest of the day with a gentleman friend.

We couldn't possibly fail.

Which will be why we were still sitting in our dressing gowns chatting at whatever o'clock. The decision made being to have another cup of tea and then she would go running whilst I finally got my proverbial in to gear. After all, it would be easier after another cup of tea. And I was promising bacon after the run. Who can resist that?

Incredibly, it worked, flatmate went running, I jumped in the shower, re-did my toes, put a face on to be half respectable and even sorted my knicker drawer before eventually scurrying off to Messrs Tesco for tea and apple juice. How organised am I?

Well, obviously, not very as (a) I should have had tea in as we were down to one bag and (b) flatmate had returned from her hour run by now. So I left her stretching on the balcony whilst I finally scuttled off to get the essentials.

Generally, apart from the later start, all going to plan.

Next step, bacon, fried, naturally as was a lonely tomato and a slice of bread for me (I'm from the North, what can I say). Apparently, according to my dietician (and flatmate) the fat helps slow down the conversion of somethings to somethings in the bread (I wasn't paying much attention in science) and therefore makes it healthy. I like this science stuff.

So with lashings of bacon, tea and apple juice we sat on the balcony and... Sat on the balcony and... Sat on the balcony. Occasionally breaking for such things as sunglasses (naturally), cellphones (so we could tweet about being on the balcony) and little else. It was glorious. And I was at least dressed, though with my skirt hitched up and straps over my arms, but my floozy flatmate was still in her dressing gown. Terrible.

Well, not so terrible.In the distance we could see fit footballers running around kicking their balls and occasionally a cyclist would roll by, see us partially clothed and then nearly end in the canal from distraction. Ha. We even got a toot and a wave from a delivery driver. Trouble was I waved back and was then falsely accused of being a floozy! I was quite shocked. Something about pots and kettles.

Henceforth we shall be known as Flirt Towers.

It really was idyllic. Trouble was, flatmate was also really supposed to be meeting gentleman friend at noon. And it so wasn't going to happen. Which brought us to sometime after noon. In a fit of industry I cleared away whilst flatmate rushed off and returned 4.8 seconds later having dressed and made herself look that level of nonchalant cool that I can only aspire to. I never did like her.

And with that she kissed and ran, leaving me to, pfft, work.

And work I did, with the occasional distraction from flirty texts and emails to stop me from pining for the outside. Which lasted all the way until around 2:30 when I was offered something a girl finds hard to refuse... Champagne in the sun. Cue the sound of me reapplying lippy and scurrying for the door to go and meet an old friend.

Later, courtesy of the champagne fridge in Waitrose, we had a lovely bottle of Perrier-Jouët, just right to stand and chat on the balcony without thinking about profligate expense, not that I paid, obvs.

And it was pleasant.

Better than pleasant. Watching the world gently roll by below as the bubbles rose and the sun beat down. It really had become a divine day. And I managed not to think at all about my machine whirring away awaiting my attention.

Later in the afternoon, for a change of scene, and maybe one other reason that I won't mention, we scuttled off giggling, well, I giggled, and wandered into Limehouse in search of a pub. As you do. We ended up in The Grapes, which definitely had the Sunday crowd in, found a nice quiet spot and chatted for a good while. Which would have been good, except I also had another couple of small glasses of vin de dodgy and was now definitely, unreservedly, slightly squiffy. Oh dear.

It could have got worse. But Monday is a school day so my friend had to wander back in the direction of St Katherine's Dock whilst I was left to meander back home. Via Tesco. Again.

This time though I was in search of something to mix with pasta as my alcohol fuelled brain felt pasta was the only thing worth eating, plus I'd had vague recollection of saying I would cook for flatmate and gentleman friend. Fortunately, he decided that he wasn't brave enough to taste my fare, though his excuse was that he had stuff in the fridge that needed eating. A likely story.

It wasn't until I got home that I realised quite how squiffy I was, I banged and clattered. A lot. Opened doors too forcefully. Nearly fell over as I took my tights off. Generally showing just how reeely soffisticated I am. It wasn't helped by my ex-favourite-flatmate laughing at how funny I was when squiffy. I'm sure I shall have my vengeance.

Another day that didn't quite follow the plan.

But oh, what a fabulous diversion.