A few days ago my watch strap broke. All very well, you might think, as your mind begins to drift onto the theoretical possibility of using artificial intelligence to fetch, read and digest your RSS feeds for you, before relating only the most important sections in a nicely synthesised voice balancing a matey joviality with gravitas and authority when the subject matter demanded it. (“And the breaking of watch straps”, you note smugly and with a slight trace of a snort, “would certainly be discarded by any intelligence even half worthy of the name!”) But hang on there, buddy, because it turns out that the opening to the watch strap story – in all its banal simplicity – was actually only the mere lead-in to the observation that the aforesaid event seriously disrupted my ability to live. I drifted through the days – two, possibly three – without much awareness of what time it was, my days punctuated instead by the motion of checking my empty wrist and sighing. Sure, I had the time on my phone, on clocks, on my laptop and in the corner of breaking news channels, but none of it could compensate for the simple service of a watch. Plus said watch can go 100m underwater, which none of the rival timekeeping devices can, so there’s a USP right there. Here’s to watches!
I’ve seen rather a lot of Joshua and Niamh recently, so much so that I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re mightily sick of me by now. (“A common sentiment”, our hypothetical rude reader adds, who you should probably know is Cubert.) On Monday night we were at the Blues Bar they’re fans of, along with Lucy, who was using London as a central cog in the transportation of goods between Rome, Sussex and Cofton. The next day the pair joined me and Katie in a Peggle practice session, in preparation for the Peggle ‘n’ Pizza tournament I have decided must be held. (In fact, I have apparently decided it must be held on Easter Sunday. Outlook doesn’t tell me things like this, you see, and each year I find it a big enough struggle trying to remember how many days Easter even spans. I thought I had it figured – death on Friday, ‘your call is important to us’ on Saturday and (brief) resurrection on Sunday – but then my dad started talking about ‘Easter Monday’ and I lost it again.)
And then, yesterday, I went to see Oliver and Abi – plus Abi’s sister Sarah – for a picnic. Except that it rained, so we ate indoors instead, but then ate crisps, popcorn and French Fancies during a splurge of Buffy watching, so all’s good. It is true that the sugar slightly went to our heads. as we may have ended up lying on the floor trying to arm wrestle, but that’s allowed. Oh, and we all watched the first episode of the latest series of The Apprentice, on which I want to say only two things. Firstly: using the phrase “at the end of the day” should result in instant expulsion, not just from the show but from society itself. (Shut up, Cubert. I don’t want to hear about your mastery of the search engine.) And secondly: the boys’ choice of the team name Empire – on the explicit grounds that it was ‘distinctly British’ – actually caused me to involuntarily drop a spoon. Good idea, you utter, utter pillocks.