”There is a tide in the affairs of men,”Brutus told Cassius in Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar, and how true that is. At the moment my ebb is at the low, and I only crawled out of bed three hours ago, followed an hour later by the love of my life. I don’t think I shall head toward Philippi to head off Octavian‘s forces just yet.
Yesterday party season started in earnest, and we attended the first Fresher’s week party at a club here in town. It got late. We left the venue at midnight and spent an hour chasing the perfect kebab, but none of the shops could offer it, so we ended up not with Turkish food but soggy chips and dry fish from a chippie shop.
Our disappointment in the diversity and cultural offerings of the town almost prevented the traditional snog on the threshold to our house. Of course, we had to oblige, or the people behind the fluttering curtains would have nothing to fill this day with. I mean, it’s tradition, isn’t it? You have to keep up with tradition.
Since waking up I have really done nothing, thought nothing, and felt nothing but the dull lethargy that comes with a mild hang-over. When it seems too much of an effort to rise and go to the fridge, the only thing you can do is to kill pedestrians in computer games.
Only George is stirring, and he has sat in the chair in the office staring out of the window for ten minutes; so intently as if he’s turning over plans of world domination and sorting through which people should go up against the wall first for the slights and indignities committed against the feline kind. I suspect I and Mark, and the dogs, are high up on that list. He did try to kill me earlier by pressing against my legs as I headed down the stairs.
The rest of the day, I think I shall retreat downstairs, and snuggle with Mark, and maybe endure a footie game. At least I can read something while those men on the telly try to turn the tide this way or that chasing after a ball. Maybe they’ll find reason to go to Philippi and deal with Octavian’s men.