FOOTBALLITIS
It's 11.40pm. My eye-lids are sagging; my mouth cries out for water; and my bed is calling my name. Yet still I sit here, staring morosely at the tele, dividing my dwindling concentration between my computer screen and Match of the Day.
Spain v France is about to start. I missed the game itself - one of only about three so far - in order to share a kosher Indian meal with my friend D. Like a reindeer burnishing his antlers, I went for the spiciest dish on the menu and promptly self-combusted. Only now am I beginning to chill again.
Didn't speak to Z today, but I'm seeing her tomorrow. Work still exasperating, but social life showing signs of vigour for a change. I need more sleep.
It's 11.40pm. My eye-lids are sagging; my mouth cries out for water; and my bed is calling my name. Yet still I sit here, staring morosely at the tele, dividing my dwindling concentration between my computer screen and Match of the Day.
Spain v France is about to start. I missed the game itself - one of only about three so far - in order to share a kosher Indian meal with my friend D. Like a reindeer burnishing his antlers, I went for the spiciest dish on the menu and promptly self-combusted. Only now am I beginning to chill again.
Didn't speak to Z today, but I'm seeing her tomorrow. Work still exasperating, but social life showing signs of vigour for a change. I need more sleep.
posted by David Cohen at 11:43 pm
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