I had such an odd weekend.

On Friday night I came home from school, did the dinner thing, read some of my book, The Iceman Cometh (okay, its actually a play) for the Book club last night, cleaned up some stuff, watched some tv.

On Saturday, I helped friends move, went to see The Punisher, and had dinner at the Elephant Walk (mmm, very good) with another friend to celebrate her birthday. On Sunday, I finished reading the play, cleaned up some more (since the book club was meeting at my place this month), met with them and then read the last couple of weeks of The New Yorker, which I'd put aside because I didn't have time.

What was so odd about that, you ask?

It was so bloody lovely ordinary! That's what was odd. I cannot remember the last time I had such a wonderfully mundane weekend.

I have to do this more often!