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.