So my hopes of having a quiet Easter weekend spent relaxing and finishing my essay did not exactly go according to plan. Decided to clean entire flat on Monday (best displacement activity ever, when one has essay to write), including moving around half the furniture. (This is v ill-advised thing to do - I always lose enthusiasm half way through, leaving unresolved mess in my wake.)
At some point, I decided to make myself something to eat, and somehow ended up having gruesome accident with kitchen knife. (Note to self for future: if I am ever abducted and tortured in my own flat, I won't stand a chance; despite paper-thin walls, none of the neighbours responded to my blood-curdling screams for help. V. alarming, considering last week a woman was discovered dead in a flat in Wood Green. She died 2 years ago, and the TV was still on. Apparently, there is outrage and disbelief in the Italian media about this, because to them, it is inconceivable that none of the neighbours noticed anything amiss. Also reminds me of the time I broke my ankle and was lying helpless and face down in a puddle in the pouring rain on Gray's Inn Road, and people stepped OVER me.)
Anyway, whole incident was pretty grim, and I ended up calling the NHS Direct line. They were v good and efficient, and the doctor I spoke to told me to go to Casualty immediately. However, he was unable to tell me where my nearest hospital was, and suggested I call the police to find out. The police! In the end, I called Male Model (somewhat sheepishly, as had shouted at him yesterday morning about his mess), and he cut short his game of golf(!) to drive me to hospital (bless him). Ordinarily, I would have been thrilled to sit in Male Model's brand new Porsche, zipping through traffic in Hampstead, watching beautiful people soaking up the Bank Holiday sunshine. Sadly, the experience was marred by the torrents of blood gushing from my wound, and my general irritation at being stuck inside cleaning up after Male Model (filing all his paperwork, for god's sake) while all the other residents of NW London, it seemed, were strolling on the Heath eating ice cream.
Oh and while out for an early morning run the other day, I slipped, fell, and injured my ankle. 4 days to go until the London Marathon, and apparently, running 26.2 miles is not the best thing I can do for it! Am REALLY REALLY seriously nervous for the marathon this time. Cannot sit still, cannot sleep, and keep on having long, torturous dreams about not finishing.
Re Emily's kiss and tell, I know one shouldn't judge, especially if one does not know any of the facts or parties, but here goes anyway: chances are that "he" was married anyway, and whether or not she"still has feelings" for him is probably a matter of supreme indifference to him. And for god's sake, they have apparently only had one "night of passion" - hardly a full-on declaration of lifelong love and trust. But the question is this: should Emily kiss and tell? Given that the woman is always portrayed by the media as either the sex-mad, evil, predatory vixen or the poor, weak downtrodden little wife, do we think "good on her" for taking the money and running, or is she merely fuelling societal perceptions of female sexuality?
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