My secret ambitions to become known as the Samuel Pepys of the 21st Century are surely taking a bit of a knock as I find myself preparing to leave London just as one of the most exciting things ever to happen here begins. The Olympics could easily see this generation's Great Fire of London, either metaphorically if the event is a success and the sport is blisteringly good, or actually if some idiot manages to get on top of those blocks of flats and launches some missiles at a jumbo jet. But whatever happens I will be in Edinburgh, moaning about some rain, comparing sales to this time last year and gradually disappearing up my own arsehole. August is the cruellest month if you're a fan of Warming Up, because I have nothing to write about apart from every day being the same and my gradually crumbling mental state.
Really to cement my position as the pre-eminent diarist of my time then I should stay at home and maybe try and instigate a couple of minor terrorist atrocities, or at least run on to the road and punch a Marathon runner. But I choose instead to leave the city tomorrow, first to head to Cardiff, then on to Newcastle and then finally my third country in three days, to Edinburgh.
I had to head across town to pick up a clicker for my slideshow presentation today and on the tube I saw an American man wearing his Olympic accreditation on an ostentatious lanyard round his neck. He worked for the Washington Post. I wanted to remember his name so I could freak him out if he has google alerts set up. But it was unusual and it's gone from my brain. I am a useless diarist. I thought it was a bit showy to have that on on the tube and suspected that at some point some grumpy Londoner might punch him. But he was left alone while I was there, although I had to try and get passed him and he got in my way a bit. That might be the closest I get to the Olympics.
When I got back to the Bush I had some lunch and then headed home. People were gathering in the streets around Shepherd's Bush Grey. I had heard nothing about it, but my guess was that the Olympic torch was about to come through town. This was confirmed by a family of podcast fans from Cyprus who recognised me and shouted at me (in a nice way) and claimed to be my only Cypriot listeners - prove them wrong Cyprus. I await your emails. Actually they might have been from Malta. I can't remember now. Another reason why my likelihood of becoming the New Pepys are slim.
I should have hung around to see the torch go by so I could blog about it, but I was conscious of how much packing I had to do and unless the torch carrier accidentally set fire to the whole of London as they ran past then it wasn't going to make much of a blog. I went home. About an hour later I heard people cheering at the end of my street. My wife rang to say she'd just arrived home in time to see the torch and that I should come out and have a look. But I was running a bath and was in my pants. So I cannot fill you in on what it is like to watch a minor celebrity or notable member of the public running around with a big gold cigarette lighter.
My bath was fucking lovely though. The new bath is massive. And I had some lush Lush bubble bath in it.
Oh dear. Pepys would have run out into the street naked (after burying his cheese). But if baths are wiped out by some kind of bath epidemic then this may be the only one of my entries that historians refer to.
But don't think there was any great fire today, so I am glad I had a bubble bath. It was relaxing. This is how we relaxed in 2012. I guess you future historians find that ironic now that the entire world is a bath. I feel sorry for your diarists - the chances of a great fire are very poor.
