Life as we know it

This morning I woke feeling ever-so-slightly desolate; the sky was grey, rain was falling and - more tragic than both of those things - Dr. McDreamy didn’t pick Meredith. He didn’t pick her. So Grey’s Anatomy S2 did not inspire warm, fuzzy feelings. How could he possibly not pick her? How? Obviously, Addison is very attractive but why not Meredith? The whole scenario is wrong, wrong, wrong. Though I suppose a bit of unrequited love (and that ‘staring meaningfully into the distance’ thing) is a great ratings winner.

Anyway. I realise it is ridiculous to obsess over the lives of fictional characters when, in fact, there are speeches to be learnt and French verbs to revise.

So.

I went for lunch (late, thanks to the incompetence of the bus driver) at Temptation, with Sophie, Lauren and the Ellis brothers. It turned out to be bloody good fun actually, with Sophie holding court about Ann Summers as Lauren glanced from side to side and told her to keep her voice down because “not everyone wants to hear about sex toys over lunch”. Quite. But we ended up hanging around, drinking a good bottle of wine and laughing at the phallic birthday deserts that were doled around rather liberally.

Then we trawled the High Street staples to look at new school bags for the boys, rejecting most of them on the grounds of being too small/too tacky/not quite retro enough. On the way home we discussed the impending return to school - or, should that be, the start of Sixth Form:

“I’m not too sure,” mused Si, “about English Literature. I don’t actually like books.” But alas, there is no end to his madness - he taught himself a GCSE language over the summer quite cheerfully, dismissing his previous choice of Philosophy as “too thoughtful”. And, of course, learning two languages - one of which almost from scratch - simultaneously is not a thoughtful, involving task at all, is it?

Ben, in all his brilliance, has promised me the new Ray LaMontagne CD for my birthday. It is the best possible gift, except of course tickets to concert of the aforementioned artist, or to a magical Radiohead or Kasabian extravaganza. Any of which would be extremely exciting and, frankly, bloody fantastic. The only problem is, really, that I would have no one to go with, as Jeffa’s foot is firmly down.

And this evening I took Matt to Henley Road, both for him to sign up for some inane Twenty20 indoor tournament and for us to go for nibbles at Mina’s for a while as the assembled company argued over who would be in the team.

“Look,” said Matt pointedly, “it is my team. Entered in my name. So if you don’t all shut up you’ll all be out.”

Ah, it’s good to see he has the gentle diplomacy of his sister.

Why? Why not Meredith, McDreamy?