As some of you probably know next week Andy and I are having a Holiday In the City. It’s one part ‘too poor to go away’ and another part ‘who needs to go away anyway?’ but I’m rather excited about it.
Sadly I think my excitement has actually grown since poor Andy hurt his leg. Now struggling on crutches I sense that his disability (through tragic, obviously) will mean I can stop pretending that I have any desire to fill the coming week with the kinds of activities that I see rugged looking people wearing cashmere sweaters over their shoulders doing in adverts.
I will be perfectly happy not hiking through the woods, going rockclimbing ordoing any of the sickeningly energetic things I feel I ought to pretend to like. I am crushed that I can’t go horseriding, because it’s been ages, but then you can’t have everything.
In horseriding’s place I get to have long lunches, boozy dinners, lying on a rug at the park and reading pure trash, lying on the couch and watching pure trash, taking hot baths in the middle of the day while reading pure trash and listening to Andy tell me I’m turning into a prune.
In short: I intend to get away with moving as little as possible and, when I have to, to do so with a drink in my hand. It will be awesome.