Murray vs the Fed: come on Murray! At least win a set, man - then I'll put a fiver on you for the US Open and you can win me a few weeks' rent.

My Big Interview today, 2pm sharp down in Clapham, for a position as a customer services rep for Southwestern Trains or whatever that Waterloo company is called... Made it just in time, despite giving myself a half-hour cushion - the bus took freakin' ages, I read loads of The Corrections on the top deck of a 35. Alighted, and it promptly started chucking it down, so I arrived at the interview feeling both dry and smug (at having brought an umbrella despite it being sunny when I left the flat). It all went well, I filled in the forms, crossed the ts, dotted the lower case js, had a brief interview with a man with prematurely gray hair who insisted on using the word "dude" at least once or twice every sentence, to everyone in the room. 'Dude' this and 'dude' that. Like an uncle trying really hard. Bugged the hell out of me. Anyway, the interview bit went well and he said that I've Got The Job (not officially; I get the official call this week sometime).

So, huzzah. However, soon after leaving I was called by Borders requesting an interview this weekend, which I duly granted. The customer services beins 6am in the morning if I want to have any part of my day free, which is a bit shit - and Borders is just down the road. It really looks like I'm prepared to be paid £1.25-ish less per hour in order to have a much smaller distance to travel, and to work sociable hours. Which, now I've written it down, makes perfect sense - especially as this isn't a long-term job search but merely a stop-gap until the end of September... so I figure I only stand to lose (or rather, not gain) about, er, £200. Hmmmmmmmmm. Would I pay £200 for six weeks of lie-ins and the odd night in the pub? Rhetorical, that.

Ah, today my life of thriftiness drifted ever-so-close to a life of crime. First of all, my lurking on the bendy 149 paid dividends as I swiped my Oyster card just prior to a ticket inspector, visible through the door, boarding - saved myself a hefty fine there, and had a brief surge of adrelinaline, before receiving a few dirty looks from some rather pious 149 patrons (incidentally, it's officially the 7th most dangerous route in London).

Then later on I transgressed consumer societal norms in a way I haven't since my brother and I got hammered in Munich and nicked a few postcards. Wandering central London listening to music, wondering whether or not to catch a film, and I waited a few moments by the Starbucks inside the Trocadero, idly flicking through some albums looking for a fresh soundtrack to my life. To my left stood the drinks counter, where green-aproned servants leave all finished drinks to be collected by the customer. No one was anywhere near said counter, and in the middle stood a large iced chocolate frappucino with oodles of whipped cream, net value maybe about 3 quid, looking all forlorn - in need of a friend, a consumer. I waited for about twenty seconds, and nobody came to collect it - no one was even looking at it - while the staff were busy doing whatever it is Starbucks staff do... so I settled on Saturday Looks Good To Me, picked the drink up and walked off quickly. More adrenaline! Aaaahhhhhh, the adrenaline was far more satisfying than the 149 evasion, and somewhat ironically far more satisfying the drink itself.

So inviting...

Now I see why whenever My Anonymous Kleptomaniac Friend steals something, he can't wait to tell people about it afterwards; it actually felt quite good, I briefly felt powerful - once my heart-rate had resumed normal speed, at least. My residual guilt is minimal to say the least (Starbucks can probably afford it) but, somehow, I feel a little... unclean. Like the bit in Home Alone where Macauley Culkin steals a toothbrush and walks home with his head bowed and spirits deflated. I think I like to paint a self-image of a guy who's pretty set in his values of right/wrong - e.g. stealing = wrong - and today I completely blew those away. I don't like blowing away pieces of my self-image when other people do it anyway. Luckily for me, my values are backed up by a relatively strong fear of being caught doing anything wrong (which I today just about circumvented by checking two or three times that the coast was as clear as day) and an even stronger fear of confrontations... so, that is my crime gene sated for another few years. (Um, except for the fare dodging.)

In fact transcribing my wrong-doings make me feel stupid. I don't like feeling stupid. In fact I hate it. So, I am going to buy a few beers and relax by watching England's Bright New Dawn splutter towards a rather soggy mid-morning via a dull and dreary 0-0 draw. (Poor Dean Ashton.)