... so I think I'll abandon it.

I'm pretty bored with this.

Lemme tell you about spiders. They spin. They sit in their spun webs and they watch. You remember Arachne? Poor old Arachne. It wasn't her fault that she was better than the goddess (Artemis? My memory is failing, baby, old age and all that). Anyway, Arachne aside, they watch. They don't tell the flies that they're watching because that would spoil their fun. They eat flies. Poor old flies. It's not that I like flies, it's just that I feel sorry for them when they end like that (and I've seen the film, of course). Trapped. Wrapped. And devoured. Slowly, innit? Devoured slowly. I think they paralyse them first though. That must be some kind of relief I suppose. Spiders have eight legs, apart from the one in that story, that one had seven legs. They run fast. They run at you just to freak you out.

Oh, incidentally, this site is messing up. It won't let me leave messages or PM anyone. Actually, it could be my computer rather than the site. Don't know. But I can't make contact.

I ate too much creamy pasta tonight and now I feel sick again. There was no wine to wash it down, that was the problem.

I'm reading a fairly horrid book. It's made me do a bit of research about the Salazar regime. I know someone who was there in 1974. She lived through the carnations. I don't think I want to go to Angola just yet.

The report was submitted on time and I've done my prep for next week. The old dear is mad at me because I won't be there to take her to the hospital on Monday, which is, coincidentally, her birthday. I shall be there this weekend though. Don't know how I'm going to cope with el doggo. I shall be away until Christmas week. Damn. Haven't even bought cards, let alone think about prezzies. Not quite true. I bought a prezzie for Tayeb, but it's not a Christmas prezzie. It's a solstice prezzie. So he gets it before Christmas.

Tomorrow I have to tidy up. The carpets smell like new carpets. It smells like a carpet shop.

Moff.

Oh, the relief. The report is finished. I just have to edit it properly now and send it off by demain matin. I've been out of contact with everyone and I feel like that kid in that story in that book I had when I was a kid. Damn, that was a good book. I gave it to my cousins when I didn't have anything else to give them. That hurts. I miss it so much. It was a bit dark. I've just noticed how tired I am. The caffeine keeps me going. Living on drugs, this is terrible. Too much to do always. No possibility of good things. That's not true. I'm one of the luckiest people I know. Okay, it's not pure luck, but luck plays an important part. Tomorrow two carpets arrive. I have to go to the hospital for physio in the afternoon, so tomorrow is pretty much written off already. So is Thursday, so is Friday, so is Saturday, so is Sunday... you get the idea. The next opportunity for breathing will be

That doesn't make sense. You can't breathe when you're dead.

I feel sick. Too much caffeine

Greetings, spirits. I have been away for two weeks, now I'm back for a week then away for another two weeks, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. My car was broken into, so that was inconvenient. What did "they" take? The usual. Nothing. What's to take? I'm bored. Bored with work. For a start, I'm working for nowt. I have to farm out my lovely dog, which costs me a fortune, pay to have the car repaired so that it can be driven... you get the picture. Can't afford to quit, though. I support too many other spirits. People just can't manage, can they? The old dear is expensive at the moment, and I can't abandon Queen Mab. Besides, how would I pay my williams? They don't deserve a capital letter.

Anyway, this week I have left some very happy spirits behind me in glorious Sheffield, the steel city. I only saw an arts and media city, though the train went past a fair bit of the steel stuff. I did steel once before when I was working in Sheffield. Now I'm hungry, and I need some dinner. The hotel breakfast selection was lousy. The dinner was okay. Not a massive choice. A bit of a cheap skate hotel, I'm afraid to say (Jury's. I know they do it without an apostrophe, but I just can't cope with that). I'm going to make purple velvet curtains for my small room. Yay!!! Cats are so furry and purry.

I'm going to cook dinner, then eat it slowly, washing it down with Spanish oak-aged red. I like old-world wines. And cats. And dogs.

A groovy weekend to all and sundry

Look at this, it's genuine. I found it on the internet (where else?)

It is extremely difficult for foreigners to get a job in Brazil. Your best chance is to look for an employer from your own country and see, whether they have an opening in Brazil. The difficulty is getting a work permit. This applies to all foreigners. Even if the company from your home country offers you a job, the time of your work permit will be limited. Your company is obliged to train, side by side with you, a Brazilian applicant for your job. Once this applicant is trained, your work permit will no longer be renewed. As a consequence, there are only two ways for being able to permanently live and work in Brazil:(1) You can either deposit the equivalence of $200,000 in an account of the National Bank of Brazil, to show that you have sufficient funding to start your own company, or, (2) you can have a child with a Brazilian girl, marry her and then get a residence permit.

Now that's all well and good, but I might find it difficult to have a child with a Brazilian girl for biological reasons. Besides, I don't want a child. And I don't want to get married. I'm very open-minded about most things, but this smacks of using people, and I really wouldn't want to do that. I'm sure that your average "Brazilian girl" wouldn't want to have a child with me, either. People clearly have very odd ideas about women. It suggests that "Brazilian girls" are just waiting around to have children with foreigners. This shows a distinct lack of respect for half of the human race. Maybe the advert is just meant to disgust you enough to put you off looking for work in Brazil. Maybe.

It's half past five. I've had my cream in brandy (I ran out of milk). I'm going to bed. I hate lurgies. See, I can moan manfully. I have learnt this trick. Damn.

Poorlier I am. The lurgies have not gone away. I'm going to bed.

Poorly I am. The lurgies have attacked. They're not nice.

It's the weekend, I'm surrounded by my lovely dog and cat and I'm excited! Reasons for excitement: have been offered extra voluntary work which I have foolishly accepted because I think it will be fun; have been informed about a conference in Finland which I'd like to participate in (and giving a paper would be the cheapest way of doing this); I'm not going to see my old dear this weekend. Isn't life groovy? Okay, I know I've been evil and I haven't done any work for the fud, but darlings, I will, I will. I know you've heard that before, but, you see, this is a spur for me. It's well good. I have a very nice book to review, so I'd better get on with that too. Plans for this weekend: to do more of the decorating (this is desperate), to do more of the baking. This weekend I intend to make the logs and the BFGs. A chocolatey weekend. I'm so excited! Woooooooooh!

Coffee is bad for you, but good for me. Alcohol is bad for you, but good for me. Exercise is good for you, but bad for me. Seasons turn, life exists, existence is. Bah. The dog is dirty and needs a bath. Truncated. Iconic. Tonight I needed to read Eliot and Musset. A bit of a contrast. And a friend reminded me of the chintzy chintzy cheeriness that Johnny described. The cat sat on my lap, purring, purring, purring, purring, oh lord thou pluckest me out. Tomorrow I shall be in County Durham once again. Not sure where I'm supposed to be going, so I'll set off and hope that somebody tells me the address somehow. Our new systems are so efficient. Darlings, I'm rereading Damals war es Friedrich. Yes, I know it's a kids' book, but it's interesting. I liked it when I read it in translation, and now I'm ready to read it in German, so that's good. And the Queen is right: the sentences are short and uncomplicated. It's an easy read. The fud goes not at this moment. Too much to-ing and fro-ing with the old dear. Too much. I have baked. Forgive me father, for I have baked. What have you baked my child? I have baked Christmas cakes (three), cider crumble cakes (two), fruit tarts (five) and I've made the Christmas puddings (three). I've made the mincemeat too. What is my penance? Three lots of washing-up and a full freezer to sort out. Damn. Another penance for the damn. The damned. Okay, enough. Where are they? In the attic? Dry thoughts in a wet season. Wet, wild, windy winter weather. Autumn has gone for the moment. Musset. Nuit d'octobre. Nuit de mai. Me gusta Musset, but I'm not sure why. Ce livre est toute ma jeunesse. Maybe that's why. And tomorrow we dance.

Once upon a time I was at a funeral. While I was there I met the parents of a boy I dated once. Once, and once only. I was about sixteen at the time. He wasn't my type, very boring. His mother asked me if I remembered him. Well of course I remembered him. She said, accusingly: "He never married, you know". Make of that what you will. Maybe it was just a passing comment.

The sun is shining and the cherry tree is laden with gold leaf. While I was in Newport I took my usual route with the dog through what's left of Grove Park. It was covered in fox leaves and fish leaves and pear leaves. Very beautiful. My old dear is completely independent as long as there's someone there to do everything for her. I'm working on her definition of independent, you understand. She needs an army of slaves.

I need renewed motivation. Too much to do, so can't start. You know how it is. Overwhelming.

And I'm bored, not of, but with (take note, Oli. I don't suppose you care. Are you losing your voice, darling? You should look after yourself better).

Curl and whisper in the gloom. Gloom is a strange word. Comical.

Do you have any idea of how many spider solitaire games I've won today?

This is the situation: my old dear has broken her wrist. She has the blackest eye I've ever seen, very impressive, and she can't do much for herself. Therefore my plans for decorating, PhDing, going to concerts and generally doing zephyrish things have gone awry. I travel up and down the motorway, five hours at a stretch, to try to help out a bit. She's getting "forgetful" as well. Can't take anything in. In addition to this, while I was out on the road, something happened at home: three bookshelves that used to span the wall above the computers died suddenly, causing total chaos. One broken chair, two broken computer tables, 300 broken books, one broken heart. My books are migrating to boxes, the boxes are migrating to my room with all the other homeless stuff. My dog is hungry. Okay, she's no longer hungry. My dear cousin has volunteered to mothersit for me this weekend so that I can go to a concert. The old dear, however, doesn't want her. She'd be embarrassed (cousin has dyed black hair, a total disgrace). She wants me. Why can't I come? Cousin has already booked the tickets to travel from London to Newport and back. Well, can't she just leave it? Then I could travel to Newport on Friday night when I get back from my conference. Yes, Birmingham to the frozen north to pick up the dog, then down to Newport. Eight hours of driving if the traffic is light and there are no roadworks (!). That would be so much better. Less embarrassing, don't you know. We can't have scum with dyed black hair caring for people. It's not what you are, it's how you look. If you don't conform to the norm you are necessarily a bad person. And my mother's friend is on holidays, so there's nobody to shop for her (except for my cousins and a whole host of other friends and family, but they don't count). Okay, okay, I know. But she's extremely annoying. You have no idea how annoying this woman is. Now I'm not going to justify it. Some things I don't want to talk about (and especially write about - once it's in print it's irrevocable). You'll just have to believe me when I tell you these things. Or not. You don't have to believe anything. And you don't have to dress to impress the beige brigade (can't take credit for that, it's a Lenism). You can be who and what you want to be. Don't let other people rule your destiny, be comfortable in your own skin. But don't give other people a hard time because they're not like you. Variety is the spice of life, you know.

Today I discovered a wonderful thing: young linguists! You see, they exist. People still like learning, they still like languages. Not many people get the chance to learn languages, though. Yay, languages! You have to learn them all so that you always know what people are saying about each other. It's usually fairly boring stuff, but occasionally you find something interesting, then it's worth it. Currently reading cinco horas con Mario by Delibes.

Back from the delights of Interlaken and Cornwall to boring, pressured work. First, though, I have to tell you about the wonderful visitors' book in the cottage I stayed in. Most people complained that the cleaners weren't doing a good job, and perhaps they had a point: Two years ago, some guests said they weren't too keen on the drops of dried blood on the bathroom floor. When I was there, I was rather intrigued by the splashes of dried blood on the bathroom ceiling beams. There was plenty of it. Another entry in the guest book detailed the misery endured by a couple who had to go without television for FOUR DAYS!!! I mean, what can you do in a place like Cornwall if there's no telly? It must be hell. It clearly was hell for the Smith family. A wonderful couple from Switzerland recorded that they had gifted the cottage with a cafetiere. Yay! Thank you Anne and Laurent! You're my friends for life. To celebrate the Swiss, I made rosti and donated the cheese grater to the cottage. Anyway, I went blackberrying accidentally (I've never seen so many blackberries), so when I got back I made eleven apple and blackberry crumbles. I practised my German in Switzerland and in Cornwall. Don't ask. It doesn't make any sense.

Oh, I have been poorly! Sore throat and aching body, oh dear! Fifteen hours in bed is pretty good for you (well, for me at any rate). Last weekend I was in Paris for the ballet, the weekend before I was in Abertillery for the blues festival, and the weekend before that I was in the Lake District for a hot-air balloon flight. This weekend I shall stay at home. Then I shall be away for three weeks with work. Then it will be autumn again. Did it ever go away? Perma-autumn. I should spend some time poring over pictures of sunlight just to remind myself that it exists. Out there, the sky is leaden, the rain is pouring down as it has been all day and all of last night. Mrs. Brown you have two lovely daughters. Sweet Georgia. Haa! What's the next treat going to be? Maybe it's the Colne festival. Could be that.

I want to go to bed but I'm waiting for a phone call.

One of my bestest friends in the universe is upset, and she's miles away so I can't give her a hug (not that she'd want my lurgies, you understand).

Oh, dammit, I'll try to ring her.

Going to see Jeff Beck tonight, tonight, tonight.

I'm going to quit work, so I am.

Oh yes, I am.

I'm going to live a little.

…and said “What a good girl am I”!

because today I have sorted out and housed most of the tapes, replanned my room for big audio, I have planted my courgette seeds and I have sorted out a work problem. Woooo, yay!!!

Now all I have to do is…

Okay, the list is too long.

But I’ve done something, and later I’ll practise a new drumming pattern. I shall perfect a new drumming pattern, and I shall work on my speed (having proved that strength is no problem). El sol brilla, hace calor hoy. My seeds should grow goodly. I have a new lean-to, and it’s fantastic. It houses many plants and keeps them in tropical conditions. I’m not even sure that my pelargoniums can cope with that. I believe that the computer wants me to put “pelargonia”, though it’s wiggly lined that too. Whatever. I say “pelargoniums”. Final word to me, not to the computer. If my courgettes come through, do you want some? The seed packet stated that there were thirteen seeds, four too many for me, but actually there were twenty-three. Twenty-three courgette plants? Even if half of them fail it’s too many. Never mind, mustn’t complain. I’ll just have to eat loads of courgettes, cook millions of things and freeze them. That’s the way, baby! That’s why I’m emptying the freezer. I need to defrost it and organise it so that I can accommodate garden produce. As if! Well, we’ll see. I’ve cheated and bought some pepper plants, six in total. So, with the courgettes, given that three of the peppers will grow in pots, that’s at least thirteen grow-bags. I don’t have space for that. I’ll cope though. I’ll find a way (I think I’ve worked it out). It will look very interesting. Very interesting.

I had my main meal at 10.15 a.m. because I was hungry. Now I have to do some research, organise my notes and start to write up a topic. I have to write a review. I have to do boring stuff too. Hidden treasure. Too excited, too much caffeine. I keep getting messages from work telling me that things are not functioning, then that they are functioning. Fantastic. Il va pleuvoir, tu sais. You can tell. It’s that sort of day. I have to do some washing and some sewing today. Making an act of faith. The last time I grew courgettes I had but six seeds. They all germinated, and I was overrun with courgettes.

Just thought I’d record this dream for posterity:

I was at home with a woman who hated me (she’s long dead), my mother (!), a colleague (who wasn’t a colleague in the dream) and an ex-boyfriend (who was just a friend in the dream). This woman was doing everything in her power to irritate me: smoking, rearranging my space, trying to humiliate me, the usual stuff. So I wasn’t in the best of moods. Then, to irritate me further, she put on the television. Now I don’t have a television in real life, but this dream television was like a cinema screen, as big as that. She put it on, and it was South Pacific, the tail-end of the bit where Cable is singing “Younger than springtime” to LiYat (sorry, don’t know how that’s spelt), and, although it had all of the original colour effects, it just wasn’t right. The song finished within seconds, and the scene cut to a crowd, but it was a crowd of Disney-type animals with massive grins, clearly representing the folk of Bali Hai, and I realised that this was the dire Disney version of the film. One of the animals was a lion, and its grin was particularly silly. I was questioning why anyone would even consider remaking South Pacific when the original was so effective, when the alarm clock shattered the dream and left me reflecting on it. And when I reflected on it, I found it so hysterically funny that I spent all morning laughing at it. Until I got to work. Then things went downhill a bit rapido. But never mind, it’s the weekend, and it’s a long weekend, so that’s good.

I think we all felt like quitting today. The only thing that stopped us was the knowledge that that’s exactly what they would like. No fuss. They get rid of a whole swathe of us without the need to pay redundancy, without any tribunals, without any further forcing. Some of my colleagues are suffering hugely because of this, and this is just the beginning of the process. I think we should foment revolution through a policy of non-cooperation. Do the job, yes, but do it well, properly resourced, with genuine results. No political gloss, no cutting corners. Why would we treat people like that? Their futures are at stake, and we’re not going to play politics with them. We could revolt by sticking firmly to the company’s values. That’s what we should do.

So there I was, cataloguing some of my books, making guesstimates about their value, when I decided to look a few of them up to see what they were really worth. Maybe I should get them insured. My guess was £12 a throw, but they’re worth in excess of £100 a throw. First editions in perfect condition. Acquired from a house auction many moons ago. It’s scary sometimes. Okay, but I don’t want them sold on. Not sold on ebay, not sold through antiquarian booksellers, no. When I kick the bucket, the collection will have to be split many ways, I think. They’re to go to people who appreciate them, not for their monetary value, but for their content, or, in some cases, for their aesthetic appeal. I should set them up as a registered charity, especially now that libraries no longer house books. What’s that all about?

I ordered a book from Amazon last night and it arrived today. How did they do that? They must have set off on their trusty steed as soon as I placed the order.

For the rain it raineth every day. The Great British Summer. Fantastic.

I think I have a new hero. Hero worship. Mah.

Oh dear, this is bad.

It makes a difference when people are nice. I like nice people, they make me feel better. Nasty people make me feel bad. It’s quite simple really. I adore blues.

I don’t want to go to work tomorrow!
I don’t want to go to work ever!
I want to live, live, not work!
I know I’m lucky to have a job…
For the moment.
Damn.
Ungrateful wretch.
Oh, this track is beautiful (Missing you, Oli Brown Band).

Echoes in the desert, echoing from what? Red rocks, dry, wet, not. It’s solitary, uncertain. No light. It’s dark, oppressive, heavy. Tonight, silence perhaps. I have to book my train ticket. I have to book my plane ticket. I have to
Hidden in the leaves
Sandcastles
Must be Margate
More likely Blackpool
Black pool, black staring into the heart of light
Aranjuez
Spanish is such a posh language.
I think I’ll reread the Bhagavad Gita

Last night I drove to Sheffield to see a tribute group. Now, I was under the impression that tribute groups became tribute groups because they like the music of the group they’re paying the tribute to, and because they want to be able to play like them. I saw Freeway once, and they did exactly that, they were great. They didn’t play the music absolutely note for note, which was a very good thing, but they were true to it, and they were very true to the spirit of it. They didn’t particularly try to look like the group, though they made clear reference through their clothes and movements, but it wasn’t a pantomime; it was a performance, and a very good one at that. Simon Kirke joined them for a few numbers, and that made it really special. However, the group last night…
Tried to look like, and imitate the mannerisms of, Led Zeppelin. I’ve seen LZ, and although I know where Letz Zep were coming from, it was a parody, not a reference
Played the songs in the wrong rhythms, making them sound pedestrian and tired
Failed to play in tune with each other and in time with each other
The bass guitarist omitted the vertiginous bass-line that underlies Heartbreaker (their second number), so their interpretations sounded hollow and effete. This was the pattern for all their songs: minimalist interpretation, the sort of thing you might do if you’re just starting out with an instrument, “Led Zeppelin simplified, a guide for four-year-olds”
The lead guitarist played around one in every eight notes when interpreting the fast Jimmy Page solos. What’s the point in that?
The drummer omitted some of the most distinctive drum patterns in many of the songs. Having said this, he was probably the best player of the lot. That’s not saying much
The singer was simply embarrassing to look at. Now I know that Robert Plant didn’t always sing as well as one would hope, and he indulged in falsetto and crow imitations from time to time, but it worked. This singer didn’t even try
The whole performance was characterised by a flippant attitude that told me that they didn’t give a damn about the music they were playing, and certainly had no respect for either the musicians they were making a living from or for their fans.
I gave it a good chance, but I couldn’t stay for the whole performance. That’s only the third time I’ve left in disgust during a performance. The first time was when I was fifteen and we were taken to see something completely gross and pointless in the local theatre; the second time was during an extremely unfunny comedy sketch; and the third time was last night.
Tell you what though: it made me appreciate Led Zep even more than I already did, and I didn’t think that was possible.
Tonight, to celebrate, I shall cook a posh meal and listen to some heavy blues by candlelight. And I’ll bake some pears in red wine for afters. Fruit is good for you, baby! I’m telling you the absolute truth.
I like this lonely blog. It’s nice having somewhere to write things that are true without upsetting people by saying them. It’s like having a ruff book again. Volume 4784, or something like that. My dog is tired. Nevertheless, she’s going to be bathed. She’s a dirty dog. Life is jiùst too two to moo.
I’m hungry.
Pears in wine

Friends Reunited has its uses, it seems: I’ve found someone I was in school with. Now, you may say, that’s what Friends Reunited is supposed to be for. Maybe so, but usually it doesn’t work. The wonderful thing about this one is that the person concerned is feisty, intelligent and fun. That’s so nice. And (this is the killer) she knows where to put apostrophes. She can spell, she can construct sentences, she can use words well to express her thoughts. She has thoughts!! This is phenomenal, and I’m so happy. However, that’s not what I was going to tell you about on this occasion. I was going to tell you about the Paradise Attic. That’s not the name of a club, it’s a real place. I haven’t been there, but I’ve benefited from it. The Paradise Attic is owned by a chap who lives about ten miles from me. He used to be a teacher, and he found himself in possession of a whole lot of books and tapes that he no longer needs. These were taking up masses of space in his Paradise Attic, so he placed an advert: “free to a good home” type thing. Obviously, I responded to the advert, and I now own (on semi-loan conditions) loads of books and tapes. My bedroom looks like an audio museum. It houses three open-reel tape recorders, two pairs of speakers, an amplifier, approximately 150 tapes for the three tape recorders, my drum kit (including my Zildjian gong), a record deck, about 400 books, my CDs, my sewing machine with all its accessories, my orchid, my geraniums, a large, extendable dining table, two computers, a wardrobe, a dressing table, a filing cabinet, a tallboy and a bed – among other things. Time and Relative Dimension in Space, baby! Oh, forgot to tell you – the Paradise Attic isn’t empty yet. It’s a magic Paradise Attic, constantly renewing itself with treasures that are only treasures for people like me. Ach, don’t worry, I’m paying for these things whether I’m expected to or not. The kindness of strangers is wonderful, but it should be rewarded amply if possible, and it’s possible. I’m ecstatically happy, probably helped by the acquisition of hundreds of tapes, a glass of Merlot and so much espresso and chocolate that I’ve lost count. Therefore I shall walk with the dog. Thunder, I love you! Making holes, but that’s good sometimes, even if it hurts at the time, even if it looks terrible for a few weeks. Sometimes the pain is worth it. Never, never, nevermore. Oh, the beautiful blue sky, filled with swallows and clouds. Rescue. Wait until dawn, then pounce. Now let me share something with you that I would never share with anyone. I’m sharing it with you because you don’t exist. This will remain unread, and that’s the joy of it. My coup de foudre, whom I haven’t seen or been in contact with for many centuries, is in love with another woman! He’s like a love-sick puppy (never seen such a thing!). He leaves her messages that are almost poetic. It’s very touching (apart from the fact that he’s not suffering horribly because he’s not with me). Anyway, she looks very nice, and I don’t know the story behind it. It seems a shame that they’re not together, because he’s obviously terribly in love with her. I didn’t know he was capable of that, so he’s really gone up in my estimation. Oh, don’t worry, this is absolutely on the level. He came into my life as a coup de foudre, and he went out of my life absolutely and forever the day he proposed to me. As soon as he said it we both knew that it was over, dead and gone. Neither of us ever looked back. That’s perfect. That’s how it should be. None of this hanging on, waiting and hoping. That’s just a waste of time and effort. I need another coffee. Perhaps. Oh, why not? Black eyes, go for it! Damn, I’m in a loud mood. Loud and shallow. Damn, high as a kite, a million times higher. It doesn’t take much, just a little life, a little sunshine, my sun will shine. Oh, and I ordered a stylus today. If it’s good I’ll order a lot more. Try it first. It’s not an original, it’s a copy. That’s the problem with owning old equipment. Antique, baby. Yeah. Cement, that’s what you need. Polyfilla. That’s universal. Universal, universe, university. I suppose I’d better walk with the dog before it gets too dark. Maybe we’ll walk to the end of the universe and catch the bus back.

Life is sometimes just too frustrating for words. Time, precious commodity. Dammit. So much to do, so little will to do most of it. Sarawak turtles. Cape of Good Hope one shilling. Poste Italiane. Lo que sea. Ceskoslovensko. I was in love, you know. Still am, really. Most days I am. Sometimes I get a bit fed up though. I suppose I have to tidy up in preparation for the cataclysmic avalanche that’s about to descend on me tonight. That means something. I’m going to buy somebody a puppy. A virtual puppy, you understand, a sponsored guide dog. I think that’s a nice prezzy. I’ve had to reinstall Spotify because there was no sound. What’s the use of having Spotify without sound? Ooh, lovely blues. Ooh, Alvin Lee. And some crap Rory tracks from Against the Grain. Mmm. That’s strange. Won’t be buying that one then. Now I’m wasting it. The dog is five years old. Old. Only three more hours before the cataclysmic avalanche. What can you do in three hours? Wait. Wait. Wait.

Sometimes I’m unbelievably lucky, and, of course, other times I’m not. But today I am. Today I have had some excellent news i’faith. I am to acquire some tapes. Oh, I love tapes and tape-recorders. They are well groovy. Now all I need (!) is to get myself sorted with a really powerful stereo system working on at least quad, build somewhere to house it, and blast music. I’d like my Solavox speakers repaired really, but it seems that nobody can do it because the parts are unavailable. I’d like a fourth opinion on that. Ooh, hungry. Damn. Maybe I’ll have some more coffee, then I can dance with the dog until I drop. You know how it is. Well, you probably don’t, but then you probably wouldn’t want to. I have to apply for a job. Reapply for my job, more accurately. One hundred posts for four hundred people. Now my maths ain’t great, but I reckon that means that some people will be out of a job, so I’d better give it my best shot. Unless somebody would be willing to pay me the same as I get now for not working… no, I thought not.

On Monday the dog will celebrate her fifth birthday. She’ll have a can of dog food with five dog chews in it. Yay!!

I have two more deadlines to meet, so I’m halfway there.

On the weekend I’ll order a new stylus (or maybe two or three or four).

Oops, have to write an email. Bear with me.

Done.

Too much caffeine. It’s bad for you, you know. Never mind, it’s good for you.

When I was at my mother’s place at Easter, she got out the old photos, as usual, and we looked through them. There were some of when I was a baby, of course. Now, I was the ugliest baby imaginable. I had a mop of black curly hair which my mother used to scrape from my face and tie in a huge bow that looked like a helicopter. And I was incredibly fat and grumpy-looking. I hope I’ve improved, though I have a theory that if you want to see what you’ll look like when you’re old, you should look at a photo of yourself as a baby. I hope I’m wrong. Though I guess it would be nice to have the black hair (a bit scary though. And I’ll dispense with the helicopter).

Last night I went to Leeds to see Gary Moore because he’s a million times better live than recorded. When he walked onto the stage, I couldn’t help it, I giggled. He looked funny. Then I realised why: he bore a strong resemblance to me as a baby. His hair wasn’t quite so curly, and it was lighter that mine, but I swear that if you’d gathered up his fringe into a helicopter he would have looked very like me. You see, I told you I was an ugly baby. He played a great set. It was well worth the trip.

I think my old dear is forgetting who I am now. Oh well, that’s the way it goes. Does it have to go like that? Because I don’t want it. There’s a nice book by Romain Gary, la vie devant soi. There’s a character in the book, an old man, who talks about the love of his young life, and how he’ll never forget her. Then he develops Alzheimer’s, and he forgets. That bit made me cry. Combined with Rory’s lyrics in Wave myself goodbye: “maybe one day I’ll even forget your name”, with the subtext “as if!”. It’s who you are, it’s too sad to lose yourself so comprehensively. Damn. Intellectual paralysis. I should be writing an essay now and I’m doing this instead. Bah! La femme rompue, too. I love that story. It hurts.

Cherry blossom time, and the hawthorn is flowering too. You know what that means, don’t you? Hay fever. Itchy eyes, sneezing. Yeuch. Sometimes things just don’t work out the way you want them to. You want things to be straightforward, easy. Instead they’re mucky. Damn. Expensive, too. I posted a parcel to France today, and the postage cost more than the two books I was sending. It cost £36.49, and that’s a lot of dosh. The lady in the post office was terribly sweet, and advised me to split the package and send them separately because it would be cheaper like that. I asked how much it would be, and she told me that it would be £11 odd for one and £28 odd for the other, or maybe each one would be £28 odd, depending on the weight. So obviously I sent them as they were. She was trying very hard. My poor dog was attacked by two dogs on the weekend. She didn’t deserve that. This week I have to do lots of work. Oh, lots and lots. And lots. Quite a bit. Otherwise I’ll be in even deeper trouble than I’m already in, and that wouldn’t be good. It’s not a pretty sight when academics get mad. Mustn’t rub my eyes, mustn’t rub my eyes. Look master! Ha! Too much Céline, it’s obvious. He has a lot to answer for. Darkness falling, falling. I like the way it falls.

Until

The

Next

Revolution needed, apply within. I’ve been looking at some of the stuff on Friends Reunited, and, even bearing in mind its function, it’s way too passé for me, baby. Obviously I’m an accumulation of my memories and desires and I mix them liberally, but vraiment, there’s more to life, there must be more than this! To cap it all, I’m reading Céline’s Mort à crédit. Ach, la vie, quel cauchemar! Quel rêve… qu’elle rêve. Oh, elle rêve, ça c’est sûr. She raves too. And craves more. Discuss your reasons for rambling. The pussy cat is in the garden, sitting daintily under the fire thorn. The doglet is in the garden sitting scruffily under the cherry tree. The sky is pearling greyly and I really ought to be thinking about my own ensaio sobre a cegueira. It must be done. I must do it. Tomorrow. I’ll have more time tomorrow. Tonight I’m going to blast my way through here with some ultra-loud music. Me voy, amiguitos. Oh yes.

The sun is shining and the world is catching up with me again. My watches and clocks stay on BST all year round. Life is easier to cope with like that. A new season, a new beginning. Every day is a new beginning, every second is a new beginning. How boring, always starting again. Going away, going to work away for a week, then, I think, back again to face something. Poor people, always having to face something nasty. Life is never really easy, is it? Easier than we make it, though, usually. I’m guilty of making life difficult for people, but mainly as a chain reaction because they’re making it difficult for other people. I like dogs (that includes underdogs, I suppose. That’s where the train of thought was going). Tomorrow, when I get a bit of space on my own, I’ll walk the dog and bash the drums. I’ll still be able to get my work done, too. Breaking nails at the rate of two a day. This means I’m having to type with my fingertips, and it hurts. Damn. My plans have changed. Tonight I’m having another visitor. It never ends. ‘Tis a welcome visitor, to be sure, but it still involves a major change of plans and extra work. Damn.

This is the way the world ends, apparently. At any rate, it's how the sea looks:

Sometimes.