February

[Sweder]

Like Andy last weekend I'm having some 'home alone' time.
My girls set off for the delights of Camber Sands and the Len Goodman Latin and Ballroom dance finals, leaving the boys to run (ruin?) the house.

I'd scheduled a dark eight miles along the A27 last night. First I had to pick up a couple of ‘dinners’ from Pizza Express. I'm not generally a fan of fast food chains, but Pizza Express has always had a special place in my heart. Many years ago (circa 1982) my future wife lived at home with her mother who ran a large house, home to a variety of curious tenants. One such was Patrice, a mercurial, ruddy-cheeked French fisherman who liked nothing better than to sail across the channel from his stone cottage on the shores of le Breton, steal our fish, ravage our women and leave an impressive trail of empty red wine bottles in his Gallic wake. During passages of land-locked lasciviousness Patrice would take odd-jobs to fund his habits. One such assignment lead to him preparing and painting an entire restaurant-load of furniture for Kingston (Upon Thames)’s latest eatery, Pizza Express. The venture was new, exciting and promised great pizza (there was a dearth of quality Italian outlets at the time – imagine!). To poorly-paid youths the opportunity to dine well for relatively little, and in the case of Patrice’s close friends occasionally gratis, was too good to pass up. Many a sultry summer's evening was gently frittered away over a freshly-painted cast-iron table (complete with standard wobbly leg) on the outskirts of the burgeoning town (Kingston was still a Royal Borough in those days), with views of The Kingston Mill, a fine Real Ale hostelry, and beyond the majestic leafy banks of the Thames.

These warm memories kept me company last night as I waited at the collection desk in the Lewes branch of this now mighty chain. A variety of young Eastern European staff bustled about, brows furrowed, without seeming to achieve much. My pizzas sat on the counter, core temperature dropping as my anger rose at my apparent invisibility. I’d decided to take my supper and leave when a young man ill-equipped to handle the complexities of a credit card machine attempted to relieve me of payment. I left shaking my head wearily, vowing never to return and bemoaning the inevitable changing of all things beloved for the worse.
Of course, like the Terminator, I’ll be back.

By the time I got home, despite a long, dark run being just what the doctor would have ordered, I just couldn’t be arsed. I hurled Jake’s pizza in his general direction, scooped up a large glass of wine and hit the sofa, a quadrant of Pollo Ad Astra already gripped in my teeth. I punched the remote, at once relieved to be home, warm and comfortable, yet fighting the rising tide of guilt.

Oh well. I’ve stuck religiously to my schedule (such as it is) – a night off won’t kill me. There’s nineteen cruel miles laid out for me on Sunday, including a half marathon race towards the end . . . the justifications came thick and fast, yet on some level the self-flagellation continued. How so? Well, not content with sitting through Alien Resurrection* again in the vain hope I’d find some redemption for the Director in the final chapter (I didn’t), I flicked over to watch most of that well-known giggle fest, Platoon. Thank God for Rock Goes to College on BBC Four - ACDC at Essex College, Colchester, circa 1977 - pure gold.

No miles banked but a welcome night of lazy misery thoroughly enjoyed.





*Fear not, dear reader, I shall refrain from the traditional lament