We had a very mixed weekend. Friday night was relaxing, involving having dinner cooked for me and then watching some television that was actually on that night. The Sky+ box is transforming life at home. I suspect we both had slight hangovers on Saturday. I kept postponing a trip to the gym until I decided not to go at all. I did, however, fill two enormous black polythene bin liners with audio cassettes which are now destined for landfill. I do like being cruel to be kind like this. There are now only two boxes of cassettes. One contained my 147 barely-distinguishable live versions of Roundabout and the other contains actual albums. They will become CDs somehow. For the live recordings, I'd be happy if they went to a good home. I may revisit them however and do something quite surgical and bold. For example, the mono recording of a 1996 John Wetton concert I made and have subsequently never listened to fulfils perfectly Dawna Walters' criteria for lobbing out. Once I've done the music, it's books next.
I had a bitty and unfulfilling afternoon, during which Helen spurned me on mavour of the content of the latest issue of "Weddings and Pastel Colours, Lace and Soft Focus, Nuptia, Your Special Day, and Weddings" magazine. I attempted (and failed) to fix my laser printer, which will become landfill. Resorting to my Inkjet, I had to replace the cartridge. It menstruated indelible blue ink all over my hands (and foot), and I look like an apprentice octopus-wrangler as a result. Yes, I said menstruated. I have seen the pantie-liner commercials and know that it's just an odourless-looking light blue liquid. I don't know why women make such a fuss over it. Tsk.
I went to see Forgotten Sons, a Marillion tribute act in the evening, while Helen stayed in and watched a film on antique VHS she had rented from a retro place round the corner. Satirical observers may be able to say we were both enjoying superceded forms of entertainment. The Sons (as I shall now call them), were excellent and played a fair approximation of the Marillion sets that kept be ebtertained in the eighties. However, as there were three men and a dog in attendance, I can only conclude that there was a genuine Marillion/Fish reunion concert somewhere else in Edinburgh that night. It's the only possible explanation. I spoke to the singer - imagine David Brent in Harlequin pants - after the show and apologised on behalf of Edinburgh. That's technically the Lord Provost's job, but I thought I was up to it. Drink had been taken.
On Sunday, we went for a walk in the Borders, near Abbey St Bathans. The wind-chill factor was intense. In fact as Hurree Jamset Ram Singh would have said, the intensefulness was terrific. About half way though the walk, I stopped being a grumpy neglected old git and began to regale my lovely wife-to-be with anecdotes from my youth. We shopped at Sainsbury's on the way home and partook of the cafeteria's delightful Thai Vegetable Soup. Damn fine.
Approximately five months after moving in to our house, we finally put our pictures up this weekend. It makes me feel much better.