Saturday night sulk

For the last month my Saturday night line-up is starting to become increasingly repetitive and scary for a 23-year-old woman. It includes myself, a bottle of red wine, a couch, a doona, taped episodes of Top Gear (I'm increasingly falling in love with James May), a Graham Greene novel and a bed which I generally pass out in. If I was watching TV, I’d be lucky to even make it to Rage. This is undeniably nerdy and pathetic. In fact I can actually hear the sirens of the Nerd & Pathetic Police as they tear down my street to arrest me. While this is happening I imagine a hoard of screaming 20-somethings yelling outside my window - “get thee to a nunnery! You are a fucking disgrace to our generation.”

Depressing violin music ensues.

But ultimately I really couldn’t give a shit at the moment. Adelaide is too cold to venture out into its boring pathetic excuse for a night life. I have no man by my side for the first time in years. And, if I was really being honest with myself, I just could not be arsed and I’ve also just bought myself some giant fuck-off red wine glasses to fill my red wine with. Best purchase in a long time.

And besides, who needs real company when you have this:

The excellent Mr Greene

and this...

The only men on TV at the moment who can pull off wearing double denim outfits and frumpy skivvys, yet still be so awesomely cool.