Perfect Saturday
Tennis in the morning with some of my favourite boys – getting a tan and a sweat then shooting the shit at an apparently famous no-name coffeeshop in Redhill walloping some steamed bread and noodles.
Ashtanga Yoga at Horse City – feeling like a proper hippie in this open air studio run by indians with strains of om shanti om playing on the lute (via the cd player). Class size a grand total of… one. Which means I got more than three times the attention I paid for. And it was good. There were horses walking around outside as well, shitting everywhere. Close your eyes and you might think you were in India.
Home – My sister announces she has a boyfriend. I am over the moon. There is nothing that can get me down this weekend. I guess it helps that he’s a nice, good guy and I hope that they one day have lots of little children who will grow up to be pastors. I also hope they never read this.
Home, also – A warm shower, a fresh fruit salad, rain coming down in sheets outside. The National is on the stereo, and I am Moisturising like An Adult Person. I am reading Neruda and for a second I am struck by what a pretentious schmuck I must seem, revelling in all of this. It is like that Friday night in 09 when I bought a bottle of whiskey, came home, put on some music and, well, painted. Got drunk and painted. It was ugly as balls but the idea was there. The only blip in this hipster pastoral was me hugging the toilet at the end of the night.
And then there is plan-making for tonight (crepes!), and the rest of this weekend, and then there will be a nap.
