I don’t really have a great deal else to say about today. I went for a bracing run up onto the Heath, back down over Suicide Bridge and home via Stanhope Road. Whenever I pass Suicide Bridge I wonder when the last jumper jumped. It’s a macabre thought, but I've never really seen much evidence of the suicides which have given it its unofficial name. I once saw a little pile of sand on the road underneath, which I assumed was evidence of a clean-up operation, but I genuinely thought people were meant to jump all the time. I mention this only because, when I lived in Tufnell Park, I used to drive along the Archway Road, underneath the bridge, and wonder how anyone could live on a road so utterly marred by its association with death. When I moved here, I thought I'd see ambulances pulling up all the time. Perhaps the fences they’ve built at the top of the bridge have deterred jumpers. A friend of mine at drama school was nonchalantly walking up the road when a naked man landed at her feet. He’d thrown himself off the bridge. As you'd expect, it scarred her for life.
I’d like to say how profoundly irritating I’m finding my internet connection and want to take this opportunity to remind Talk Talk that we’re not living in the 1990s. We fall offline on an almost hourly basis, which is irritating at the best of times, but when we’re watching catch-up telly, it becomes the stuff of nightmares. If you lose your internet connection whilst watching something on itv.com, it plays you another three adverts before you’re allowed to return to the place where you were. Hell on a stick.
Pepys and his wife went to Elizabeth Hunt’s house to “gossip” and hand over a cup and a spoon to her newborn child, Elizabeth Pepys' godson. They returned home by coach, and Pepys read books until late, which irritated his wife, because, one assumes, the servants had to stay up late with him.
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