Remember, Remember...

I could not get to sleep last night, so I read a little and pottered about the house until God knows when. After finally getting off, I sleep in until half noon. Padding down to the kitchen, I make a ham and cheese toastie in the Foreman and grab an iced Cafe Latte cappucino. I'm planning on sitting down to munch my brunch and watch Deep Rising, my current selection from Lovefilm, but I can't find the disc. I call Booty who'll be on her lunch break to see if she knows where it is, but I get no answer.

I hear the post crash through the letterbox, so I investigate what we've got. It's mostly junk mail, but I do get series four of Peep Show from Play.com. I don't feel like watching it just now, so I check out what's on terrestrial (we don't get digital downstairs). I catch the beginning of a Tom Selleck TV movie on Channel 4, Monte Walsh. It's a flick about a Cowboy at the end of the nineteenth century, refusing to give up the old ways. Not frighteningly original it would seem. I expect to have it on as background while I eat my sandwich, but I end up really enjoying it and I watch the whole thing. I quite often enjoy the mid-afternoon movies Channel 4 show on the weekdays, I think it's because I take extra enjoyment from the feeling I'm supposed to be at work or school like all the other schlubs.

After the film I check it out on IMDB as I always clock the trivia section of every film I watch. Unsurprisingly, there's nothing posted. I check my e-mails and see Ofcompter can't make the suggested rehearsal, which throws out the demo we were hoping to record. I tidy up a little and do some washing up. It's not long until I hear the front door open, which signifies Bootylace's return from work. I'm a little gutted, not at the prospect of my wife getting home, but by the fact that her return means most of my day off is over. I give her a hug in the hallway, but act like a prick and play it little distant. Booty suggests I take a nap, so I head upstairs with no intention of doing so. Booty, star the she is brings up a couple of hot drinks, and I apologise for being miserable. She acts like she doesn't know what I'm on about, which is the sort of behaviour that makes me glad I married her.

We were planning on going out to catch the village fireworks display, so we chat about that. I ask if we have to pay to get in, which prompts Booty to suggest we just watch it from our garden for free. I think I'm being romantic by suggesting I cook dinner, which we could then eat outside on the decking while watching the fireworks, but B isn't down with it. We snuggle a little, then she falls asleep watching Airline while I update the blog.

Booty wakes up and I tell her we should think about making a move if we want to check out the fireworks. As I get up she takes the laptop off me so as to read the last few blog entries. As she reads she laughs every now and again and I bug her all the way through to tell me what she finds funny. We then wrap up warm and head down to the display, paying four quid each to get in. As soon as we get there it starts chucking it down and I realise I've just spent eight quid to stand in a field in the rain. After what seems an eternity they get the bonfire going and then it's fireworks time. I watch some of the display, but I take more pleasure in watching Booty enjoying the show, each burst of light illuminating her smile. We leave a little early, to avoid the crowd and so as not to have to eat too late. I feel glad we made the effort to go, and in a romantic mood, I put my arm around her as we walk home, two teenagers in love.

When we get back we go to the kitchen, I peel some spuds and BL steams the broccoli. I cook up a couple of rib-eye steaks in the pan, then mash the spuds with some cream cheese. We eat at the dinner table, but it's not as civilised as you might think as I watch the first episode of the latest season of Peep Show while Booty scours the internet for a piece of classical music they played during the fireworks display. I suggest it could be Rachmaninov, but it turns out to be Prokofiev's Montague and Capulet. I think I was pretty close as they are both Russian composers called Sergei. After dinner, B-Lace goes up to the bedroom to catch some Hell's Kitchen USA. I watch another two episodes, then jack it in to pack my bag for work, which is what I'm going to do now.