The wonderful world of Wilf

I'm not sure I've told you about my good friend at work, Wilf? Well if I haven't, I'm very remiss and do apologise. I first met him whilst working in the now defunct departmental library and we bonded over biscuits and a shared admiration for Harry Beck's innovative tube map. I arranged to meet him for a canteen lunch today and he brought along a new album consisting entirely of photographs of his vintage double decker bus which he houses at the Midlands Motor Museum. Wilf likes nothing more than spending hours on end tinkering with 'Mavis' on his days off, sometimes he jokes 'it's the only time I get to buff off some beautiful bodywork wh an oily rag Margaret!'

I left work at 4pm and decided to replenish my summer wardrobe with some more 'trendy threads'. Isn't it annoying just how long shop assistants spend folding and re-folding clothes? I headed for Covent Garden, as I'd heard that it was very 'hip and happening' there and thought I'd brave the Levi's shop as my hero Gok Wan believes that classic Levi's never date and always look nice. I picked up a size 34/32 and squeezed into the bijou changing 'pod' and conversely extremely embarrassed that I couldn't even do the button up! Oh Margaret, thou est too fat for fashion! Eeek! Headed to good old M&S on Oxford Street after that and found some wonderful capris and a trusty pair of linen mix trousers instead. There's a lot to be said for comfort in this day and age.

A quiet weekend

Oh I do hate football with a passion and surely there's nothing worse than thousands of St George's flags flapping around on cars, hanging off of buildings and generally appearing everywhere? Therefore, I think I'll hibernate for the next month or so.

Things around here are fairly quiet at the moment. I renewed my library books today and I'm thinking of buying a new cardigan to combat the chilly breeze. I'm going to Emma's tomorrow to watch a girlie DVD box set she has and eat butterkist. It should be fun.

The Wooden Rocket League's Weekend Jaunt

I'm writing this from the wifi enabled lounge of the Dorset County Hotel where I'm attending a crown green bowls weekend with Mother's team, The Wooden Rocket League. In fact, this break couldn't have occured at a better time as I'm looking to distance myself from the Mr A breakup scenario at home.

The hotel is breathtaking, it's set in beautiful countryside and has a wide array of sports facilities: 5 tennis courts, 2 swimming pool, 2 squash courts, 1 gymnasium and 10 crown green bowling pitches. The rooms are comfortable and I'm sharing with Mother and Mrs Constantine, a spritely septegenarian. The food's wonderful too and I'm especially enjoying the bizarre array of vegetables which appear at every meal. The 'free wine' available every other night is fantastic and I broke my 2 glass rule last night when Mr Lancaster insisted on purchasing another bottle because it was the anniversary of his wife's disappearance - apparently she was last seen heading towards Selfridges and never returned.

Yesterday's tournament was nail-bitingly close, Mother's an excellent player and she makes a great team with Mr Davis. They beat The Sidmouth Rockets and The Cardiff Cruisers with relative ease but had a more difficult time with the Worcestershire Woods and ended up losing. This afternoon's the final so I was advised to find something to do elsewhere as Mother believes that I am an unlucky omen when I'm half way through my menstrual cycle.

Well, I think I'll go off and have a swim before dinnertime. A strange thing occured last night; I was woken by an owl hooting and when I took a sip of water from the bedside table I noticed that Mother's bed was empty. A suspicious person would draw conclusions from such events as she didn't appear to be using the bathroom but I'm above such things.

The worst lunchtime of my life

Well, I went to lunch today with Mr A and saying that it didn't go too well is a bit of an understatement. We went to the Westminster Cafe, a fun, relaxed and welcoming place which is situated just around the corner from work. He looked a little shifty and couldn't meet my gaze so during the main course I asked him what was wrong, his simple answer was that he'd met someone else whilst travelling to Brussels on business. Apparently her name is Dr Marta Hernandez who holds a PhD in Biological Intelligence and who'll be coming to the UK as a detached national expert from her native Spain.

To say that I was angry would be an understatement, but to keep up appearances both of our sakes, I merely kicked him on the calf several times, causing him to wince. He explained that they'd bonded over the industrial strength coffee in the margins of the meeting and had discovered a mutual love of the work of Antony Gormley, The National Theatre and Mr Bean, Dr Hernandez being somewhat of an Anglophile. He apologized profusely, stating the classic line that it 'wasn't me, it was him'. After ten minutes or so of this I threw my napkin down on the table, hissed that 'he was welcome to her' and stormed out in as ladylike manner as I could.

Back at work I cried for twenty minutes in the ladies loos, pulled myself together and left the office at 4pm. Once home I went straight upstairs and confided in Father who put his arm around me and confided to me that he'd never really liked the sound of Mr A anyway, despite Mother's positive spin on things.

"who'd trust some jumped up grammar school boy called Giles Henry Arbuthnot anyway!" Mother was visably upset and consigned her wedding outfit to the back of the wardrobe once more.
"It's all your fault if the moths consume the raw silk mix Margaret" she said as she stomped out of the room.

As for me, I'm off to bed now, I don't feel sad, I just feel numb. I'm sure it'll pass.