Seven hour party person

At the moment, I’m eating more brie on a bagel than any single human being has the right to before six o’clock on a Saturday (that’s eighteen hundred hours, for those of you on a twenty-four hour clock).

It seems my recent lunch phobia is reserved solely for my own sandwich-making efforts, as I’ve been eating this sandwich from downstairs with unbidden relish (in the pleasure sense, though there is some kind of onion chutney involved). Or maybe my tastes are far too refined for Tesco brand spreads.

Bruce called around noon to say that he’d landed safely (after telling me he was still in Jordan, because I guess he likes it when I cry) (just kidding) which means that my world is back in order. I won’t feel like he’s home yet until I get some visual proof, though, at the very least.

All in all, something that could have been a calm and positive experience for me turned into something rather pathetic and anxious. On the one hand, it doesn’t much matter now as that was the last time he’ll have to travel without me (as far as we know). But on the other hand – fuck. I need to sort myself out one of these days.

I thought I was being clever by soaking the dishes in hot soapy water several hours before the cleaner came, as the cleaner either doesn’t know how to wash a dish properly or doesn’t care. But the few remaining dishes I didn’t get a chance to wash before she came are a right two and eight. The rest of the flat is spotless (save for the dust).

So at approximately six o’clock (eighteen hundred hours!) you can picture me breathing a massive, onion-y sigh of relief as I turn my key in the door and for once in too many days have someone reply when I call out ‘hello?’

Gosh, I think we're supposed to be seeing Cat Power tonight...