Lack of focus

is great.

Coba Fynn's mini tour is at an end (two out of three ain't bad, if I do say so myself); work has settled down to a dull roar that can be drowned out by some music and I've set aside, for the time being, my self-improving worthy novel reading project. To fill the void with meaningless trinkets, I went on a bit of an Amazon bender and I'm luxuriating in a spot of unabashed consumerism for the first time in ages. As a result, Crosby, Stills & Nash are taunting me with deceptively simple hippie-rock brilliance, and The Graduate soundtrack has me wishing for summer sun and an Alfa Duetto to drive in it. The Count of Monte Cristo has lost out to Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and even more shamelessly, Joss Whedon's Astonishing X-Men.

Over the weekend we drank with a pleasingly full house of the usual suspects (including the usually-absent Jez and Serena) on Friday, and on Saturday were entertained by Angela and Steve up at Ash's old flat. I ate until I suffered mild digestive distress, quaffed wine and beer and blethered at length about Victorian novels - I was lapsing back into reputability even against my better judgement. On Sunday the sun returned and we debated what to do. "Maybe drive along to Gullane?" I suggested. Our inertia overtook us and we made the weekly pilgrimage to the Star Bar's beer garden instead. In the end it was just as well we hadn't gone to the beach, what with a tonne of sewage a second spewing out into the Forth. Moral of the story: go to the pub instead. It's closer and one is less likely to contract hepatitis.