In which I am mistaken for a regional football player and commit to the bit in self preservation.

Another week of being robustly out of control of my life but never the less enthusiastic about the journey. Read on if you wish…

Monday:

After spending a workday in a haze of industry and irritation, I packed my bag and left to go to the gym. On arriving in town I detoured to TK Maxx to buy more relaxed fit jeans (a passion discovered recently and written about in depth some weeks ago). Subsequently I was enticed to the supermarket for “a few bits” but I ended up doing a substantial shop and couldn’t be arsed carrying the groceries to the gym, so I just went home and retired to bed.

Tuesday:

At the end of an infuriating day of work, I received a call from my mother asking if I wanted some leftover pork and chicken for the children. I headed over to her house to collect these meat scraps, and encountered my little sister. After vociferously expressing my woes in a torrent of anguish and self pity, they asked if I’d like to avail myself of the shower. I agreed, showered, and then asked my little sister to give me a blowout with her Shark hairdryer which is now my favourite thing ever. Afterward, she did a skincare routine on me which left me feeling rejuvenated and at peace, so I went home and directly to bed to watch “designated survivor”. At some point in the dark of the night Derry woke me up by coming home to bed, and surprised me with a gift of an opal Pandora pendant. Magically, this was the missing piece which helped me to pull together an ensemble look for my Wednesday and I drifted into sleep at peace in all things.

Wednesday:

Thanks to my fresh blowout courtesy of a functional hairdryer (my own is a beat-up hello kitty brand hairdryer which I actually don’t know the origins of, it just lives in my vanity and I accept it), I was riding high. I slipped into my Wednesday look, featuring a crisp popped collar, and fastened my new Pandora on myself before heading into my “big Wednesday” which included a full day of office working, followed immediately by a reclaim the night event at which I was turning up to offer press liaison support through work.

The day passed amicably, and I spent much of my time tossing my hair and glancing at my reflection in various polished surfaces.

Later, the reclaim the night event was a success, with me managing to maintain consciousness through a caffeine haze long enough to see the programme through, before retiring to the Dougie Arms for stimulating chatter with the inimitable treasures Tom and Dillon otherwise to be found as Camille Toe and Devine Tension.

Thursday:

Amazingly undefeated by my “big Wednesday”, I rallied and kicked off another day of office working. At lunch time I stepped out to The Stove and was delighted to stumble across one Michael Moore with son Leon in tow.

Swept off on a tide of maternal feeling, I agreed to hold Leon for a while and allow Michael to recalibrate himself, which did splendid things for my mental health and reminded me of my desire for a child (one which doesn’t have four legs and a snout). We were latterly joined by the glamorous treasure Joanna LeVin who shared the latest in her serial, before I relinquished the child to his father and returned to my desk to complete my day’s work.

Friday:

Another gruelling day of office based working, this one uniquely intense as I tried to wrap up everything I have been trying to balance before my leave next week. Spent and full of adrenaline, I went straight from work to The Stove for an evaluation meeting about Creative Caerlaverock, a project I’d worked on just prior to starting my current job.

The session was an excellent opportunity to reminisce and, also, to be starkly reminded of all of the good we used to do before I became dislodged from the scene due to my working commitments. Merry conversation ensued between myself, the wise DJ McDowall and our very own Mo Love. Such excitement was had that we carried on with the evaluator to The Doug for drinks before his train back to Edinburgh, which inevitably led to an evening ending with Mo Love and I parting ways only to reunite in a waterfront take away just fifteen minutes later. Full of wine and pizza, I rode home in a taxi and contemplated the joy of living.

Saturday:

I spent the day doing nothing of particular import, save for purchasing a generous quantity of raw squid for no clear reason. Once the day was duly spent and the velvet blanket of night had descended on the rural south, it was time to join my sisters for a night of revelry and frivolity.

We started with cocktails at The Bank and then made a resolute pact to engage in a “pub crawl” which led us to The Riverside Tap for beers and quiz games, to The Dougie (naturally) for a wine and a shot and a boogy to the gloriously enjoyable music of perennial darling (and stunning head of hair) Johnny Peach, and then to The Tam O’Shanter where we sequestered ourselves in an upstairs room and recanted, with dramatic flair, the story of the time the three of us got blind drunk on Skopelos during our youngest sister’s birthday trip to Greece.

Once finished at the Tam I allowed myself to be manoeuvred to two of the bars not on my usual accepted rotation. First, to the Imperial, a sports bar generally found full of young revellers with an aggressively heterosexual homogeneity to the vibe which I found both draining and alarming. Just as we were about to leave, a thoroughly soused individual who, I am given to understand is a friend of the youngest, suddenly approached me and started to bemoan the injustices of the football match “we” had played in just that very afternoon; it transpired he had mistaken me, against all odds and the evidence of his eyes, as the “number ten” from the Annandale team. Alarmed and unsure how to proceed, I played into the narrative and channeled the energy of a football player long enough to survive the encounter and escape the bar.

We then headed to the second of our venues outside the accepted norm, N’dulge. A hellish and sweaty press of bodies with the same aggressively heterosexual Gen-Z energy which somehow feels like it gets worse every year. I passed the time in a state of alarm and agitation, before finally being able to escape. I made my goodbyes to my sisters and fled the scene, vowing as I went never to cross the threshold and grace those rooms with my presence again.

Sunday:

Full of the remnants of Saturday drinks, as well as the emotional caprice of an aging millennial, I cancelled my previously held engagements (specifically Carlisle races) and surrendered to a day at home, alone with my chores.

Privately delighted by the chance to spend time in my own company, I completed a slew of outstanding household objectives, detail cleaned the fridge, and made a southern style tomato pie from scratch.

Now, I lie in my darkened room and pen these words while contemplating travelling to my parents’ house for burgers, which feels like an appropriate quandary for a Sunday on the edge of a week of annual leave.