I pick up PG early each Sunday morning. We go to Waitrose and then to the grocers so we are usually settled down in the Plum Cafe in Munster Road over a flat white and a weak cappuccino before ten. People watching is one of my bestest hobbies and I am very, very nosy. Thus courting couples, who in all honesty likely weren't courting before Saturday, tend to catch my eye and my ears the morning after the night before. There was a wonderful example yesterday; an exquisite, delicate, porcelain creature with a raw-boned Yank who was entirely aware he was punching well above his weight. He was just jabbering, couldn't shut up for even two minutes in case there would be ..... silence. He'd seen a film recently apparently. It had a lot of scenes and they all came one after the other. My heart went out to him, the lovable doofus. At least he was there, manning up and taking one for the team.
Any roads, my mental soundtrack was Saturdays are the Greatest by Kristina Train which I imagine being sung more in sorrow than in anger on a Sunday morning. The genius of the arrangement is to inject a melodramatic Ennio Morricone spaghetti western theme into a sombre ballad. Thanks for listening.
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