The weekend

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I mentally switch off from the whole job thing over the weekend. The MINI job is history, no point mulling over that one anymore, and I’m not going to hear from BMW until next week so sod it, forget it all.

I spend much of the day working on the article for The Editor. I’ve got a whole new slant on this and scrap everything I’ve done before in favour of a total re-write and a completely different style. I’m pleased with it and it’s been absorbing and diverting, just what I needed really. I’d love to do this professionally, but it seems tough going getting a writing career airborne from a position of a standing start, no formal training and, lets face it, no clue what the hell I’m doing really other than quite enjoying stringing a few words together.

Then there’s dinner at Blonde Towers to look forward to of course. If she can do cooking as well as she does being tall it should be a feast. Fortunately she’s asked me what I like. I’m a fussy beggar so it’s best to pre warn her. She didn’t seem too phased by my limited dietary requirements. “Basically children’s food then?” she correctly surmised over the phone. I had to admit that was about the size of it.

The Blonde lives in a tastefully (and almost completely) decorated modern house in a pleasant quiet suburban area about twenty minutes away by Polite Hatchback. Spookily her taste in furniture and fittings closely mirror my own. Once she gets the stair carpet down it’ll be lovely.

When I arrive there’s already a rather wonderful aroma wafting from the kitchen. Toad in the hole is in progress, yummy, not had that for ages. You can’t go wrong with sausages, that’s my theory anyway. The Blonde looks lovely, ravishing even, stood by the cooker, cooking my dinner…

Later that evening when we’re relaxed and replete I decide try my luck. Something tells me she’s gagging for it and it turns out I’m dead right. I return home some hours later exhausted and wobbly kneed after she gives me another damn good walking!

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