Wednesday, July 21, 2004


Cure for a wine-hammered head? Cure for a heart, once again fluttering away? Surely, a 12-inch Subway meatball sandwich, with cheese. That was the plan for lunch. That was the plan to solve the problems.

And it was going oh so very well. Until the point at which my server, with her splintered English, said: "What salad you like in sandwich?" Me: "Everything except jalapenos and gherkins, please." She: looks confused. "This?" pointing to jalapenos. Me: "No." She: Spoons in the jalapenos. Me: Gives up.

O, unhappy head, o unhappy heart, screw the pair of you. My stomach speaks to me now, so much louder than the both of you. A new problem rumbles below my desk, this afternoon. To always be within a ten-second dash to the loo. For one whole day at least.

(And please, not for two.)