What a fine weekend this is transpiring to be, in England's finest month. The chill of midweek has abated and we have again warm air.
The Critical Mass cycling campaign 10th anniversary bike ride on Friday was not disappointing despite the threat of rain that day. It confirmed my estimation that the London alternative lifestyle types (dreadlocks, grunge, floppiness, tattoos, piercings that sort of thing) are seriously in decline, but it was a delight to see what few are left of them. They comprised perhaps one third of the crowd, whereas the other two-thirds were the conservative cyclists with expensive bikes and Lycra who are afraid of what people think they look like. Sadly the latter are embarrassed by the former, such is the constipation of expression that throttles some people.
A trip to a dance pub afterwards, an opportunity to chat with new people, a boogie. Then Saturday thankfully produced some sex at last, in my monastic existence, and the opportunity to chat with some more nice people.
Finally to wake up this morning and discover that James O'Brien also does a Sunday show on LBC radio until 10 am! Heaven!
Did I ever think I could be happy like this again? Why does life sometimes have to reduce you to a wretched mass, I do not know. Here comes the famous American saying, which is the only useful answer: "Shit happens!"
It's hilarious to see the signs of recovery, because of their blatant symbolism. For almost six months after breaking up, I habitually got into bed on my usual side and slept in only half the bed. Now I'm sleeping in the middle of my bed. If that isn't an untold story of regaining ownership of your life after broken love, then what is?