A busy day at work punctuated by a rare trip to the gym mid-afternoon. For the first time in a long time I got on the scales in the changing room; 80 kgs. I don’t know what that is in stones and lbs. I still feel overweight. So whatever it is – it’s too much. A successful workout; 600 or so calories burned. I really do need to move on to weights again soon, however.
I depart the office at 6pm or thereabouts. I head to the tube to take the Piccadilly line up to North London to attend an art exhbition – something I’d committed to a while back. By Friday evening my energy levels for such an excursion have waned.
The tube – so busy, horribly so. I give thanks that my standard commute these days is by bus. Yes, it’s frustrating when you just miss a bus – or have to wait ages for one. But in truth such things are rare. I work in central London and I live in central London so the commute is fairly painless. And I like it. Being crammed into an overcrowded tube makes me realise just how much I prefer being above ground, watching the world go by.
I arrive at the destination and it’s rather quiet. The hosts are lit up that I’m there. I’m not sure why. I’m plied with prosecco and also food. I don’t resist. The art is rather lovely. I don’t consider myself much of an arthouse/aesthete but I know what I like and I like what I see.
Other colleagues turn up over the course of the evening, including a Polish colleague of whom I am particularly fond. We shoot the breeze from the comfort of a leather sofa, admiring the art. She sticks to apple juice. I stick to prosecco.
After a couple of hours we decide that it’s time to leave. I have to make the journey back to the centre. We head out into an exceptionally chilly night and head toward the tube. At one point I consider myself lost but thanks to the iPhone with its map/GPS one can never really be lost.
We descend into the bowels of the Piccadilly line at Turnpike Lane. We talk and eventually part company at Kings X. An affectionate kiss on each cheek.
And I transit to the Victoria line for the comparatively short journey back to Pimlico. At the next stop – Euston I think – a very pretty young Oriental woman sits down across from me. I am transfixed by her jade green eyes and her porcelain skin and her glossy black shoulder length hair and her delicate wrists and her pink fine nails and her cherry-red lips. There is something of the Geisha about her. I want to adore her. And I ask myself inwardly ‘is it wrong’. I mean, I espouse a lifestyle that is profoundly homosexual; it’s surely wrong to become desirous of a young maiden like her. Isn’t it? Oh to live a life in which everything is black or white – rather than shades of grey. In fairness, I don’t think I was attracted to her in that sense. I just coveted her beauty because I covet objets of beauty.