We’re back in London visiting Simon the cat for the weekend. Terrible things have happened. Forget political rhetoric on terror and animal-human embryos, we went to The Larrick and watched Liverpool defeated three-nil. We also did some quick-smart character assassination on a pair of newly engaged Londoners who got into a right ol’ argument over not sitting together. The guy was clearly an extrovert, the girl not so comfortable in a big group. Boo on him for leaving her standing on her own and going to sit down with his mates at the other end of a big table. It, is, however, as T says, an issue of confidence. God knows I’ve suffered similar social lowpoints, so still boo on him. What is it about the social that can so terrify or annoy? Some theories of Social Anxiety are a little too broad-brush. Mine, personally, have always been about insecurity in a relationship: not knowing how to call on the support of a partner when feeling threatened; feeling threatened in the first place; not feeling first-placed. A bit like Liverpool. Maybe my anxiety all stems from that Michael Thomas goal in 1989…
Anyway, T and I did our budget last night. We want to buy a house in the next twelve months, credit crunch and recession permitting. One of the outcomes (see our budget page) is a wonderful Easter cookfest at home, with £14 worth of vegetables, some Stork lard for pastry, a bottle of Saumur Brut (£8 from Nicolas) and a veggie pot pie in the oven. T is a superlative in the cooking vocabulary. I, a mere adjective. Roll on dinnertime.
