2003-03-10

I had a really good weekend. It was very low-key, though, so sadly I don�t have any horrifying tales of debauchery to regale you with this morning. I know you all come here to make yourselves feel comparatively normal, responsible and well-adjusted, but you�re going to have to leave today without your little self-esteem booster shot, so there.

Saturday afternoon I decided to reward myself for a long day of running errands by buying a new Forster (A Room With a View, which I�ve been meaning to read for ages) and having a meal at the Manx. Despite the gaggle of middle-aged harpies sitting practically on my lap (�What�s a�kway-sa-dilla?��it took me a few seconds to figure out she was talking about a quesadilla. For fuck�s sake, lady, this is hardly an exotic food item! They sell them at Taco Bell!), I enjoyed a nice pot of tea and a peaceful hour of reading. I love Forster. He�s infectious: after reading him, I can�t help saying things like �How perfectly dreadful� and �We mustn�t quarrel� and �This shall never do�. Except with the word �fuck� thrown in for good measure, which I�ll admit could mar somewhat the illusion of gentility.

I finished my tea in the nick of time � unbeknownst to me, preparations had been underway for, ahem, a �reading�. Dear god. Why encourage the black turtleneck crowd? Letting them go on thinking they have talent will only hurt them later in life. On the other hand, perhaps the validation of the Poetry Reading is the slender cord holding these poor social maladroits back from a slightly more plangent form of self-expression involving a trench coat and a semi-automatic weapon. So well done there, the Manx � taking bad poetry on the chin to save cheerleaders the world over from a premature and bullet-riddled end.