This morning before breakfast I went for a walk, on an unsuccessful trip to buy my father Cremo body wash. On my walk I saw:
- A man stripped to the waist, running sprints of ten metres or so, and then stopping to spray his face with one of those bottles of water you use to squirt plants with
- Another man, taking a dump in the doorway of a shop, next door to a posh coffee boutique. Was this a criticism of the coffee?
- A shops selling horible home decor, like a marble lifesize horse’s head, or this revolting clown:
Then I went back to the hotel and ate scrambled eggs. Later, I discovered that Google Maps are really terrible when navigating around downtown San Francisco. Is this an irony? Or is it because the people of Google are such stalwart fans of Mountain View that they never go to the city and realise how bad Google Maps is there? (See also how they’ve done a better job of guiding you around public transport in Singapore than 20 miles from their own HQ…)
This evening, walking back through the Tenderloin to my hotel, a little lost in the dark, I happened across a woman yelling “I ain’t no joke” at somebody else, which was a good example of how the double negative isn’t always a positive in vernacular. There weren’t many shouty people out tonight, but perhaps that’s because it’s Tuesday, and after a long weekend of shouting south of Market Street, everyone needs a rest.
I need a rest. My eyes are a pair of bloodshot orbs. It’s high time I went to bed. Especially as I have a yoga class at 7 am tomorrow. I’ll read a few more pages of my ridiculous book about Space Marines, and then take myself off to bed. I would be more verbose tonight, but with the jet lag kicking in and me going boss eyed, it’s clear that retreat is the better part of valour.