Well it's Monday afternoon and I'm unxpectedly still in Brighton, though I could return at any moment, so if you haven't broken in and taken my stereo yet, it's probably too late.
Surprisingly, after eating Lisa's cooking on Saturday I still felt well enough to leave the house, so we made it as far as Brighton dog track in the evening. And more surprisingly still, after eating the hot dog they sold me there, I felt well enough to make it back again afterwards. Lisa and I backed at least two dogs between us per race, and with only six dogs in each race, I was naturally thrilled with my strike rate of one winning bet in the entire evening. The night was crowned in the final race when myself, Lisa, and our companion (whose name I don't yet have clearance to mention in this blog) (but it was Joe), selected a different dog each, and happily watched them romp home to 4th, 5th and 6th place.
Naturally all this gambling success took its toll, and I felt fully justified in staying in bed most of Sunday to recover.
This morning, having walked Lisa to work at some ungodly hour, I mooched around Brighton seafront, wandered illegally onto the pier before it was open, then explored the town centre, which taught me that Brighton charity shops charge twice as much as their Ipswich cousins. I don't think I've ever come away from four successive charity shops without a purchase. It's a new record. The starving Africans will just have to stay starving.
Having met Lisa for lunch (I just won't leave the girl alone), I made my way back to her flat with the bold intention of getting out my laptop and actually doing some writing. Obviously it hasn't happened, but hey, if I'm forced to get up early in the morning with someone who actually works for a living, it stands to reason that I'm going to need a nap in the afternoon. And at least my intentions were good, which is all that matters.