It is a momentous day: my builder has started. Before you know it, my walls will be down, the kitchen will be in, the bathroom will be redesigned and I'll have moved. OK, not quite before you know it - but soon. All being well. I've got to go over there tomorrow to wash down the walls of my bedroom with some sort of anti-fungal solution, so that will be glamorous. And there are several million other things I need to do - but all in all, the cogs have started turning a little faster, we're gathering momentum and I'm feeling pretty positive. Plus I have my second date on Sunday with lovely Mr L'Atelier - we spoke on the phone for 25 minutes last night and I fumbled my words, giggled like a teenager and came across as woefully thick. Hopefully I'll be able to sound slightly more articulate on Sunday - although let's not forget for a moment that I am an amazing catch and he is extremely lucky to be spending an evening in my company.
I've just had a vin-fuelled lunch with some workmates - most people managed to spend the meal engaged in a level of light-hearted banter entirely fitting for a Friday afternoon, but I became embroiled with a Mail-reading colleague who wants to close the borders and was claiming that only one in every eleven births in London was to an English mother. A) Who cares? B) Isn't that why London is great? C) It's almost certainly bollocks. D) If it's true and you don't like it, what on earth are you going to do about it? Waste your life complaining about the status quo? Go ahead - but don't do it while I'm trying to enjoy my lunch - my liberal outrage kicks in and I can't let it lie until you capitulate. Grumble. It fair ruined my scampi and chips, I tell you.
Anyway, things are on the up: I'm off to the gym in a minute to exercise drunkenly, and then out for dinner tonight with at least three people who love a sing-song, at a house with a piano and an exceptional pianist. Sounds like a sure-fire winner to me. A bientot.
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