It's Galashiela again, Sunday evening 10.02pm:
"Leanna, 'phone the shop and get off the house 'phone. Bye."
The plot thickens. No way am I 'phoning back and explaining it's a wrong number. That'd put an end to future voyeurdrama.
Relaxed Sunday, which is euphemism for Did Nothing Constructive Sunday. TSB and I react to boozy nights in completely different ways: I sleep late; he wakens early and wants to do stuff. Him still being on the current gym kick, he heads uptown, goes through his routine of cycling and rowing and sweating and showering, then 'phones me to plan lunch. I'm usually still dozing (this morning, I was phasing in and out of an alarming dream set in an exaggeratedly brown ITV version of the 1970s, in which I'd survived some kind of event that had turned almost everyone else into monsters-to-be-avoided but, I told myself within the dream, not zombies). I used to feel really guilty at my relative lack of exercise but, over time, that wash of guilt has faded to the merest twinge.
Leaving Duckie last night, we noticed that a Kennington hostelry, The Oval Lounge, seemed to be doing a special promotion for frequenters of the RVT (presumably because so many gayers schlep up and down Clapham/Kennington Park Road on their way to and from Vauxhall) so we decided to head there for Sunday lunch. Here's a pic from their Facebook group:
We found ourselves seated near a couple of appealingly camp black guys loudly discussing sexual technique (that all-important relaxing of the sphincter muscles) and a pair of vaguely Sloaney twentysomething women who were, bizarrely (because they really didn't seem the type), talking about the Bible. We decided one was inducting (indoctrinating?) the other into some sort of religious cult. I reckoned it was a cult with weird dietary restrictions because both of them were stick-thin and had been toying with glasses of water since we arrived - but they surprised us again by suddenly ordering the same main course that we'd plumped for, a towering roast-beef-and-veg based creation in an enormous soup bowl, drenched in red winey-tasting gravy and topped with a Yorkshire pud. A bulimic break, perhaps.
Anyway, lunch was delicious and there was plenty of it. We were just finishing up when the sound system - which had hitherto been playing inoffensive background muzak that sounded a bit like Air - started playing Return To Oz and we both went a bit melty. It was always my favourite Scissor Sisters track but never a single and they only rarely played it live. Realised I hadn't listened to it - or indeed, much of the first album - for aaages.
Here's a rather good fan video: