It's Monday, which equals misery. Couple that with last night's sudden realisation that if I eat five double chocolate cookies in one sitting, I will put on weight (I curse old age)- we’re talking despair on an epic scale.
Yet for some strange reason, wobbly bits and Monday blues have failed to dampen my spirits. I am- dare I say it- happy.
I think it’s down to a thoroughly enjoyable weekend spent poncing about stately homes in the countryside (The Boyfriend and I have, tragically, become National Trust Nigels), and hanging out with old friends in Clapham. Who cares about something as trivial as weight when there's fun to be had?
I’ve also finally managed to talk The Boyfriend (and myself) around to the pleasures of London’s south side. We’ve settled on Clapham for our next London adventure and are moving there next month. It’s true, Clapham is the easy option; London for Beginners, some might say. Every Paddy bold enough to tear himself away from Barry's tea and mammy's soda bread, invariably ends up there.
But isn’t there comfort in familiarity? London ain’t the easiest place to set up shop. It’s full of the career obsessed and the clinically angry. I can say this without offense, for I am one of them. That's not to say I’m not fond of the place. I’ve done my time in ‘real’ London- eating fried chicken in New Cross, squaring up to rude boys in Brixton, etc- and it's all very hip and exciting, but for now, I’m quite happy to play it safe in the cosy confines of Clapham. Everyone we love lives there or in the vicinity. It’s the logical choice.
First on the agenda when we move: sign up to the nearest gym. I'm giving this happiness thing another hour before it wears off then it's back to self-loathing and despair.
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