I was very aware of T-shirts over the weekend. (I particularly liked the anti-EU one, invariably worn by twinkling Irishmen, reading ‘The Leprechauns Made Me Do It’.) And, you know, it was odd, but at least a couple of times I’m sure I saw that zombie one again. Always worn by someone with long hair, whose face I couldn’t see clearly. Once it was at Hyde Park Corner on Saturday morning, as I was getting off a bus, and later, in the evening, as I was wandering along the King’s Road, more than a little worse for wear. (So that sighting was probably imaginary.) Oh, and I rang Jasmine and she said she’s never seen Glenn wearing a zombie T-shirt. So that’s a relief.
Michael never phoned. Jo said this morning: ‘Well, “We must do lunch” IS rich-person’s-speak for “Fuck off and die”’ – which I thought was a bit rude of her. Also, if Michael never wanted to see me again, why would he give me his card? I wandered casually past his house at the weekend (after a few too many bubbles) and he was having another party, the whole place lit up, and a string quartet playing.
Anyhoo, today it’s back on with the diet. I’m having yoghourt, instead of whipped cream, with the meringues Jo has brought in.
