Crap pubs and good company.

Friday: The cow-orkers are back, so I have to actually stay hanging around at work until the bitter end. Even though I got so bored as to bother reading my friends' friends list.

Straight to the Dev, to meet up with erzibet and blankinfinity. I only once had to physically restrain Mel from going off in search of fags ... A lovely evening of drinking, talking and more drinking. Chatted to a bunch of Canadians (Larissa and her lot). Nice Indian restaurant afterwards for a damn fine chicken something.

(ali_anarres: "You were in the pub all night then went for a curry." Me: "Yes, but it was a more upmarket curry than that sounds.")

Saturday: Down the Marlborough Head to see sinnymaker off. Sucky pub with pish beer and pish food and pish ventilation and pish patrons despite the nice décor; being convenient to work no longer suffices. Despite similar suction, I will still go to the Dev until drinking Newky Brown actually burns holes in my guts. Or they stock proper beer. Because I like the people. And Camden.

Saturday night at the MH is Bad Mettul night, so the people look like goths - only not quite - and the noise is unspeakable grunt and twiddle. A lot of the world's bad metal comes from classical musicians unable to find work in orchestras, let loose on the countryside like the trained music-killing machines they are. *widdlywiddlywiddlywiddly* "GRUNT GRUNT GRUNT GRUNT" *widdlywiddlywiddlywiddly* Though the last hour featured some actual songs, suitable for those who just wanna ROCK. Not very good ones, unfortunately.

The company was lovely, of course. For some reason, a lot of the conversation revolved around long-distance relationships and UK immigration requirements ...

zoo_music_girl's notagoth card will be taken away for wearing blue jeans in public. Cute shirt, but.

I so can't wait for my camera to arrive.

"... your muscles give up, they wave a little white flag and all of a sudden you're a fat bastard."

ladylilith appreciates the Shiny PVC-Clad Arse, and has expressed her desire to ogle said trousers accompanied by a mesh top. This would certainly fit into my own plans for sxxy deth chykitudinality, not to mention attracting the goths like swarms of nice-booted flies.

Except, of course, for the ten kilograms I have put on since arriving in the UK.

I worked out long ago that the only reason I work for a living is in order to eat the food I really want to, not cheap crap I have no option other than. And, having moved to the Island of Drinkable Beer, that's certainly not leaving the diet. (But nitrokeg and pish lager are OFF the menu.) But, hmm, less simply gratuitous crap.

So. I talk a good game with this exercise lark. But it's time for action.

1. Get some fecking exercise. Half hour minimum at a time, every day I can manage.
2. Do the goddamn situps and stomach crunches. I'm in my mid-thirties, and it's EXERCISE OR EXPAND.
3. Stop eating lard by the ton. This means cut down on the gratuitous goddamn cheese.

The other hope is that the exercise will do something about the asthma attacks. Slight one this afternoon, after ten minutes' walking in two degrees, but it actually cleared after another ten. Get my lungs used to doing more than sitting at a desk or on the tube.

Dinner tonight: a bowl of pasta, a tin of tuna (in brine, not oil), tabasco, soy sauce. No butter, no cheese. 500ml Budvar. Mm-mmm.

(And here's to the inconvenience store next to the tube station. The one that stocks multiple varieties of superlager. Know your customer base! They've taken to stocking the lovely Budvar. Lager that could almost make you believe lager is beer.)

Flem may have stopped, but flemco continues. And he certainly knows how to cure a cold.