An evening of climbing in a former biscuit factory in Bermondsey tonight, with my old friend Russell. He’s a very calming presence, like a 24 hour shop or a warm radiator on a stormy night. His main news since our last meeting is the discovery of the horror channel on freeview, and with it the ability to watch the Incredible Hulk. We also discussed a proposed Arnie all-nighter at the Prince Charles cinema, conspiracy theories about the Japanese economy at the fall of the Berlin Wall, Terry Pratchett, and the 1980s cartoon MASK. 

Thereafter we retired to a kebab shop in London Bridge. As we waited for our Lamb Doners, a resting member of staff painted several pieces of cheap white bread with Nutella, before placing each inside his face. It was not the best advert for the shop’s wares. But man cannot live on kebab alone. 

We also found our way into a pub for a quick drink: the market porter, beloved of Borough traders who can go for a post-shift pint between 6 and 9am on a weekday morning. Years ago, when a still ascendant New Labour were luring young voters with the promise of 24 hour drinking, some friends and I hatched a plan to finish a night of drinking in said pub at 6am. But it never happened. Another terrible plan, terribly never brought to fruition. And now everyone else has children.

Home to housemate and the cat, both located on or in blankets on the sofa. The cat now has most of the living room dedicated to her whims and assumed pleasure. It’s a mess of boxes, more boxes, and assorted toys and hides. I see no problem with this, though. Cats spent thousands of years domesticating us, so we might as well make them comfortable.