Bring Me The Sunset In A Cup, Or Something...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws. Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. But I’m not. I’m a fucking sub-editor. Scuttling across scores of tiresome screeds and wasting vast swathes of my all-too-brief time on this planet poring over deeply dull, stultifyingly self-important crud.

I don’t want to be a bore about it – I know almost all of us have to endure the gluttonous teeth of the toad work squatting on our glazed faces and sucking out all that is good and vital about life – but today it was particularly irksome. Today, because I had to stay late to finish some especially egregious crud, I missed out on an opportunity to see something I really wanted to see. Something that I suspect might have moved me, and reminded me of the good stuff.

To wit, a recital, with the words of Pablo Neruda read by Charles Dance and set to the music of Astor Piazzola. When Astor Met Pablo it’s called, and it’s happening now. For one night only. My flatmate Imogen got me a ticket. All I had to do was be in Farnham for 8 o’clock. But because the toad was particularly poisonous today, I couldn’t make it.

So I came home, furious, and opened a bottle of wine. Night-coloured wine. Wine with purple feet.

I knew next to nothing about Pablo Neruda until yesterday when I watched Il Postino, and then, still weeping from the film, I found some of his poetry online and quickly realised that he’s awfully, awfully good.

I read a poem of his called Don't Go Far Off, Not Even For A Day and I found myself yearning to be in love, even in unrequited love (although preferably not), and I thought ah, yes… poetry.

I’ve always found poetry a little difficult and I’ve rarely read it for my own pleasure. In fact, I could probably only name half a dozen poets of whom I’ve read more than just a few lines. Probably very predictable stuff too. Let’s see… Philip Larkin, Emily Dickinson, TS Eliot, ee cummings… um… I’m running out. Roger McGough. And aaaaah, Baudelaire. But only one poem. Oh, and a little bit of Keats.

So I have decided, on finding Neruda, on losing Neruda, that I must read more poetry. I think I might be ready. I think I might need it. And not just because in Il Postino, an ignorant man uses it to snag this heavenly creature…



…but partly.

I have also decided – because I started having premonitions of death and I really don’t want to die now, not now – that I shall stop riding my bike to work for the next three weeks. This means I can read poetry again on my commute. (Ugh, what a ghastly word.)

So I need your advice. Which poets should I seek out? (One good thing about work by the way, is that I can go in early and spank seven shades of sycamore out of the printer, so don’t hold back. And if a thousand trees must die in my quest to have the barnacles ripped from my brain and my emotional moorings stripped and scattered on the shore, so be it. You see? I need help.) What poets do you like? Which ones make you cry? I want to cry. Crying is good. As long as there is laughter involved too.

Oh, and Dylan Thomas! I love Dylan Thomas.

So, poetry please... if you'd be so kind.

Motion

I’m on the train.



From the north, back to the south. The coastline is really quite breathtaking. I wish I'd taken a photo of that. It's beautiful. It's the polar opposite of the inner cities. The sun is out at the moment and bright as a giant barbecue, making blinding clumps of whatever the heckfire that yellow flowered bush is that litters the hills above the sea. It's lovely.

I have two weeks holiday at the end of this month, beginning of the next. I was going to go away somewhere, on my own. Somewhere foreign, at least for a week of it. But I can’t afford it. I can’t afford anything in fact, for the rest of the year. Golf course! That looks like fun. I've never played golf. Oh, God. Please don't let David Cameron be our next Prime Minister.

What I’ve realised is, what with my tax debt, and my credit card debt, and my grandmother debt, I should be able to pay everything off by the end of this year – just in time for this job to finish. I feel like I’m in jail. I've got six and a half months. No remission. But of course it’s all entirely my own fault. So I should just shut the shit up and get on with it. And that’s what I’m doing. Honest, I am. Apart from the shutting up.

Rabbits! Fields full of 'em. Frolicking, they are. Glorious, glorious rabbits. Someone should write a poem about them. They're so full of life. And so tasty. God, I haven't had rabbit pie for years.



So anyway, I’ve decided – instead of going on holiday at the end of the month – I’m going to come back and see my grandmother again. Bless her. Not for the whole two weeks, but for a while. I think it does me good to see her. It’s been just a couple of days this time, but it’s definitely done me good. It puts things in perspective. Not just the paranoia of the spectre of death, but taking care of, and actually thinking about someone else for a change.

Next time I come up here, however, I’m going to hitch.

That's right.

I’m about 20 pages from the end of On the Road and I’m pretty convinced that no one has ever written a more tedious, self-indulgent or pretentious book. I’m also pretty convinced that I could find better hitching stories to tell on one trip from London to the north east than Jack Kerouac managed to distil from five years or so hitching across the States. And I don’t say that arrogantly. I think just about anyone could come up with better hitching stories in one day.

Anyway, we'll see. For now it's back to work.

I leave you with something my grandmother told me only this morning. She told me: 'Never cast a clout till May's out.'

God knows.

By the way, she was feeling much better this morning. She's still got to go back to the doctor tomorrow and she's got to have blood tests on Wednesday, but I'm not so worried now. So that's good.

Pheasant!

[Real Life] Snooze

When I was first offered this job I'm now doing, one of my primary concerns was that I wouldn't be able to find the time to write anymore. I had to take the job, and part of me almost even wanted to, but I knew that it would mean big changes. So I immediately decided that what I would do was this...

When the job started, I would wake at 5am every weekday. I would slip into my Slanket and make myself a pot of coffee. Then I would write my diary till 5.30. This would mean starting a diary again. This I would do. Then I would write something else until 8 o'clock when I would turn off my computer and do twenty minutes of vigorous exercise, stretching like Armstrong and saluting the sun like a militant yogi.

When I informed certain friends of my intentions, they were doubtful. Some of them mocked me. I was furious. 'O ye of little faith,' I chided, believing wholeheartedly that they would be laughing on the other side of their filthy faces when I slipped silkily into my new routine.

So. This is my third week and sadly I have not once managed to get out of bed more than ten minutes before I have to leave the house, often ten minutes or so after. It seems in fact that I am incapable of getting out of bed, even at 7 or 8 o'clock, let alone 5. Now I come to think of it, I have always been incapable of getting out of bed. What I'm wondering now is, why did I ever think I'd be able to do it? Am I an idiot?

Idiot or not, the fact is, I still genuinely believe myself when I make myself these promises.

For example, back in May 2008, I decided that I was going to run the London marathon the following year. I believed that too. Someone at work is doing the marathon this year. I was talking to them today and I was thinking, 'I'm going to do that. I'll do it next year.' And I believed myself then too. I believe it now. I really will do the marathon next year. You see if I don't.

You see? I'm incorrigible.

When I finally got an iPhone a couple of weeks ago, I was really pleased that I could download the app that would monitor my sleep patterns and wake me up when I was sleeping lightly, thus enabling me to greet the day feeling refreshed and wide awake. Really pleased.

It doesn't work.

BALLS.

The thing is, when I absolutely have to, I can do it. When I had to write my book in a very short period of time, I got up every day at 6am and I did it. Mind you, I wanted to do that. My heart was in it. My heart isn't in this poxy fucking job, thinking up shitty puns and being treated like a fucking prawn by people who clearly consider themselves vastly superior to me.



Seriously, for 200 days I have to tolerate this? That's over 93,000 minutes essentially wasted. Must I? Really?

Yes. I must.

With that in mind, very genuinely I beseech thee, do you know, is there anything I can do to instill in myself a little self-discipline? Or more simply, how the fuck do I get out of bed in the morning? I would really appreciate your advice if you have any. Please bear in mind, however, that I have already tried the following: hiding alarm clocks; laying out clothes next to alarm clocks; sticking abusive notes to the wall next to alarm clocks; going to bed early; going to bed late; drinking heavily the night before; visualising a successful awakening; bullying myself; loathing myself. And none of it works. Not even close.

So. How do you get up in the morning? What's your secret?

Please help me. You're my only hope.

Feedback Friday :: Nothing To See Here

Right then. Here we are.

This will be sloppy. Not half-hearted, but probably at most third-brained. I’ve been working. Two full days immersed in a world of SMEs and CEOs, audits, buy-outs and chubby men smiling money smiles in shiny ties and proper trousers. It’s really quite tiring. All I want to do is go and watch the telly.

I shall resist, however.

So, news. Time over event multiplied by inherent appeal. I have none. Indeed, apart from work, which saps the soul but enriches the other bits that quite like getting out of the house once in a while and earning a few bob, I am a hollow bone. It’s all rather unenlightening really. I don’t even want to talk about it.

I think the worst thing about work is the time it takes. It’s like – if you take it seriously – it takes up most of your life! There’s almost no time at all to do anything else. This week, for example, I was going to write a scintillating, coruscating piece about that bad egg, Barbara Ellen, escaping under the radar of Jan Moir’s odium and managing to get away not only with writing wholly misjudged tosh about internet paedophiles being lazy, but also this: ‘People should not feel obliged to switch off their mobile phones in theatres.' What a silly fucker. I was also going to get over the feelings of futility that have sprung up about something I was trying to write, pick up where I left off and bring it to swift, satisfactory and profitable conclusion. I was going to get hold of a rug that would really tie the room together. I was going to track down Danny Wallace and persuade him to let me write his column in Shortlist. Because it’s crap. And then I was going to brush his hair flat for him and insist that he stop raising his right eyebrow like a particularly charmless nonce. I was going to learn to play the piano. I was going to write a song about a paedophile called Never Too Old For A Cuddle. I was going to be something. I was going to be a contender. Instead of a blithering toad, which is what I am.

What about that Nick Griffin, eh? They should get him on Have I Got News For You and crucify him.

Balls, I’ve got to go to sleep. Got to be up early. ‘Work while you have the light,’ said the philosopher. ‘You are responsible for the talent that has been entrusted to you.’

Meh.

Have a nice weekend now. I will be drinking heavily and fixing my bike. And you? What will you be doing? Anything ring-looseningly cool?

Feedback Friday :: Up

bulk :: 13st 5
cigarettes :: meh, a few, but none on Sunday
booze :: lots; some every day
exercise :: nil
interviews :: 2
jobs :: 3

I’ve been very busy this week, fending off economic meltdown. I’m writing this from the boardroom of a giant Japanese financial institution in the heart of the belly of the groin of the beast. I’ve just finished having an initial meeting with a charming little Japanese fella who wants me to help him write reports and summaries and emails about base metal trading. I know, I know. Be still my panel-beating heart. When the meeting was over I asked him if I could hang around for half an hour and use the wifi. He said I could. So here I am.

I had something similar yesterday too. Different set-up, same nonsense.

Suddenly my life has changed, in oh so many ways. I’m not altogether sure I like it, but I’m not altogether sure I don’t. I think I might be a little ambivalent about it.

Speaking of ambivalence, yesterday I found myself wandering around the financial district and I felt myself simultaneously repulsed and elated. I made some notes as I thought I could write a heroic and visceral blog post about it. But I left them at home. All I remember now is two drunks fighting over a pink blanket, then fifteen minutes later four policemen, two of them donning purple rubber gloves and searching the drunks for knives and drugs, the blanket now nowhere in sight; I remember talking to an Evening Standard distributor who said that the new free status of the Standard had ruined him – they used to get 12p per copy, now they get 2p. He said he could have survived if they’d given 5p on the copy, but now he’d have to find different work. That was sad. And it made me glad that I was lucky enough not to have to hand out shoddy journalism to scowling suits; I remember being freshly amazed by the potpourri of London’s architecture and the thrill of sauntering through it all with time to spare and music in my ears. I love the way you can dip off one street dripping with gold, bronze and marble onto another street, seconds away, stinking of cabbages and dildos. I love that.

Actually, on reflection, I’ve decided I’m glad to be getting out of the house a little more.

Gosh. I’ve just eaten two plates of biscuits.

Oh, and another thing. I’ve got a date tonight. Wish me luck.

And have a smashing weekend yourself. What you up to? Anything overwhelmingly scintillating?

Feedback Friday :: Nothing

bulk :: 13st 8
exercise :: none
even remotely sexual things :: none
back pain :: niggling, proscriptive
marks out of ten for the week :: 5

I’ve got nothing.

All week I’ve been writing this thing I’ve been writing. Trying to. And succeeding for the most part. Monday was a washout though. In the meantime I’ve bitten the bullet and sent out a couple of feelers for proper jobs. Nothing snapping my hand off as yet, but it’s the principle of the thing that’s a bit saddening. I don’t want to do that rubbish if I can help it. I know, I know. Boo hoo.

Seriously though, I’ve got nothing. I’m listening to Eartha Kitt (Ben loves Eartha), I’m using eBay for the first time to try and get myself a chair (back still fucked – next week professional help), my room stinks of abramelin (Crowley’s own concoction apparently, which contains menstrual blood – thanks, Frank), I’m trying to write this thing I’m trying to write and I’m gearing myself up for another weekend without the internet.

That’s it. Oh, and I found this in Ben’s room. Not that I was prying. Found it under his mattress. I can’t help feeling it’s slightly more disturbing than finding weird porn.



I didn't really find it under his mattress by the way - it was in between a couple of books. When I quizzed him about it, Ben said he used to want to be a knitting pattern model, like this guy.



Like that explains anything.

People eh? So, I'm off out in a moment to run some errands and then get uproariously drunk.

And you? What you up to this weekend? Anything OUTRAGEOUS? Tell me at once.

Noise

This morning I was awoken at 5.40 by the bloke upstairs, whom I do not know more than to nod at in passing. He was playing music. I suppose I should be grateful that it was classical music and not Slipknot or Slayer, and indeed I am. But not much. I think it was Bach, but I’m not sure. Lots of organs. Very brooding. And very, very loud.

I got out of bed, quite calmly, and I located the corner of the room where I keep all of the long things: the poster tubes, the discarded barbell, the golf flag (don’t ask). And I located the metre-long iron pole. I don’t know where this came from, and I don’t know why I refuse to throw it away every time I move – or at least I didn’t know until about half an hour ago, when I realised that I’d been keeping it for this occasion. Carefully I lifted the flat end of the iron pole up to the ceiling, then firmly I gave four stout raps. Something gave. Then I remembered that this flat has polystyrene tiles on the ceiling. White flammable powder fell onto my face. The music however, was swiftly turned down. Then up again. Not to the same volume – nowhere near in fact, but still loud enough to irritate me.

I got back into bed. I couldn’t sleep. Jesus. Who the hell listens to organ music in the middle of the night? I got out of bed, pulled on a tee-shirt, left my bedroom and opened the front door. I put the latch on, left the flat and climbed the fire escape stairs. I knocked on my neighbour’s front door. Nothing. I knocked again. Still nothing. I came back downstairs.

I had not been locked out. Thank you, Jesus.

Five minutes later I got back out of bed and came to the other room. I’ve got work to do. The government job I mentioned before starts today. So I made an early start. At my desk my 6.

I hate noisy neighbours. They’re so difficult to cope with. From the stomping and the door-slamming to the shouting and the music late at night. And not knowing what to do is the worst of it. Shall I bang on the ceiling or is that what yahoos do? Shall I go up and knock or will I be stabbed? Shall I just put up with it? Am I being unreasonable? Shall I poison them?

I was born to live in a detached house, surrounded by fir trees and quietly weeping willows.

Thank God I’m moving out.

So tell me, what’s your worst experience with a noisy neighbour?

The Platform of Lost Parables

Yesterday was hectic. I was in a horrible hurry, on my way to see a house, stressed and furious, sweating and scowling, traipsing through the city with a terrific cob on, Pollyanna snivelling in my wake, nursing a black eye.

Hush now, child. Be glad it wasn’t both eyes.

I am between destinations, changing lines, cussing and sighing and surly because inconsiderate people are failing to read my mind – not even trying if you ask me – when a serious-looking gentleman in a suit which is both sparse and spruce, moves toward me to speak. He is lost. He is looking for Woolwich.

The train pulling in behind us is – I think – heading in the right direction, but I can’t be absolutely sure. There is no map in sight. ‘I think it’s this one,’ I say, as it pulls in and sicks up another fifty suits, ‘but we should really find a map.’ I gesture for him to follow me and head off on my impromptu quest; he thanks me happily and hops blithely onto the train.

When I notice his mistake, I yell, slightly melodramatically, almost in slow motion, ‘Noooooo-ooooo-oo!’ At which he hops back off the train, neatly, and the doors close behind him. ‘Come with me,’ I say, laughing merrily at his utter bewilderment. He is like a Turkish Mr Bean.

I mouth the words ‘Let’s go’ at him. Then I decide to speak them. This proves much more effective and we head off together. After a little aimless shambling, we find a map, and lo and behold, Woolwich is not even a tube station. I try to explain. ‘You need a train, mate. Upstairs.’ I point.

‘Yes!’ he cries. ‘Train!’ He pulls out a piece of paper with some words scrawled on it, amongst them ‘LONDON BRIDGE’ and ‘TRAIN’. I throw back my haircut and have a good old laugh. And my friend has a good old laugh too. And we’re both of us standing there, in this giant underground cavern, this no-man’s land between trains, having a good old laugh.

‘The train station’s upstairs,’ I tell him. He looks around him, snakes his eyes around the giant steel barn, with its stairs and tunnels, its tubes and funnels – are there funnels? Let’s say there are – and he smiles. He’s probably thinking of the barn he grew up in. Poor little mouse. ‘Where are you from, old pal?’ I say.

‘I am Kazakh man,’ he tells me, but he keeps it meek, not like you might imagine when you read the words ‘I am Kazakh man’. He is just stating a fact, as best he can. No frills, no implication. ‘Kazakhstan,’ he adds, helpfully.

‘Come on then, old sport,’ I chirrup. ‘Let’s get you onto that train.’

‘Thank you,’ says Kazakh Man.

Then we made our way along a relatively deserted platform. I didn’t speak. I wanted to, but it was too much like hard work, frankly. Bonding without language on the underground – and in a non-sexual way – is not as easy as you might think.

As I was thinking about that, a blind or partially-sighted man darted out of a tunnel to my left and came at me with his white cane. I side-stepped him neatly and was carrying on down the platform as if nothing had happened when I realised that he was speaking to me.

‘Is there a member of staff on the platform?’ he wanted to know. He needed some help getting somewhere.

I stopped. I looked. There was no one. But I did see one of those information-cum-emergency push-button intercom contraptions bolted to a wall. I asked him if that would do. He said that it would and asked me to take him to it. All the while Kazakh Man was loitering patiently. I thought for a second of introducing them. But I didn’t do it.

So there I was, plucked from the solipsistic porridge of my unspeakable rage and planted on the platform of lost parables, hand in hand with a man who couldn’t see, and a man who couldn’t speak. On we trudged, stronger for our union.

I started to laugh. Kazakh Man granted me a smile.

I left the Blind Man at the intercom system. I pressed the information button for him. He said it wasn’t an emergency. I wished him luck.

And I dropped off Kazakh Man at the ticket hall in the train station and I wished him luck too.

Then I made my way to the house, and as I made my way, I realised that I was happy. My random encounters had bucked me up no end. Good old London.

I was glad that I’d met Kazakh Man, and I vowed to take with me on my journey through life some of his humility, and some of his simple empathy, which was pure and warm and instinctive and beyond language in a way that this sentence never could be.

And I was glad that I’d met the Blind Man. He wasn’t old by the way, the blind man. He was younger than me. I wondered how long he’d been blind. I wondered if he’d become blind later in life, and if so, if he’d raged against the dying of the light for a period. He must have learned incredible patience.

So I take this too, and I make my way to the viewing with a spring in my heels.

The house, I am overjoyed to say, is awesome. Well, it’s OK. And it’s got a garden. And it felt both cosy and spacious. I liked it immediately.

When I’d done the tour I was informed that there were two more parties coming to view the property in a few hours. The pressure was on.

I took a little walk in the rain, and the dark, and the fairly biting wind, and I had a think. It’s winter. Keith’s off to take care of his dad for a while. I need somewhere to live. It almost feels like a Fresh Start is in the offing.

I caught my bank just before it closed and took out the money to cover the holding deposit. Then I went back to the agent and handed it over. I also signed a bunch of contracts. All that remains now is for my references to check out, one of which - my landlord's reference, I'm writing myself.

I am alone.

I am moving forward.

Feedback Friday :: No Value, No Glamour

bulk :: 16st 2 (Oops. Um… not really sure what happened here. Actually I am sure. Pizza and chocolate biscuits. That’s what happened. With extra gorgonzola. Plus at some stage I thought, ‘Well, I’ll be training for the marathon in June – surely I can afford a little blow-out before then?’ I’m just amazed how quickly it all piles back on. I reckon if I really put the effort in, I could be back to 20 stone by the end of the month. I don’t want to do that however. That would be ghastly.)
alcohol units imbibed :: 16
cigarettes smoked :: 0
runs run :: 0 (Hmm. Well, there you go. The weight gain begins to make even more sense. I am playing tennis tomorrow though, if that’s any consolation.)
status updates :: 1
value :: 0
glamour :: 0

My brain is officially dead. It has no value. It has no glamour. Finance has filled it with fog and fur. Foreign financiers have fucked it foroughly. And frankly, I’ve had enough for this week.

Sally’s out with friends tonight, which is a shame, but Keith has come out of hiding. Turns out he’d been asleep. After working stupid-long hours on a chocolate bar ad for five days, he went home and to sleep for 38 hours solid. Now he’s awake and suggests a catch-up with skunkweed and beer. As it happens, I can think of very few things I’d like more.

The only reservation I have is that Sally doesn’t like me smoking dope. She really hates it. Doesn’t like the smell of it on me; doesn’t like the taste. I told her it makes me eat more so she should be pleased. She wasn’t. She doesn’t even like me doing it when she’s not around. And I don’t want to upset or annoy her. But at the same time…



When I mentioned this on the phone to Keith not half an hour ago, he laughed. Then he said: ‘You’re such a fucking twat. You’ve gone from 30-year-old semi-virgin to treacherous love-rat to spineless pussy-whipped eunuch in the space of six months. You don’t know how ridiculous you are. And you don’t know a fucking thing about women.’ I laughed. Then I hung up.

I’m sick of people telling me I don’t know anything about women.

Part of me wants to say to Sally, ‘Listen. Shagpuss. I am what I am and that’s that. Take it or leave it.’ But of course I’m afraid that she’ll leave it.

Another part of me wants to never ever touch another cannabinoid as long as I live and to say to Sally, ‘Look! Look what I did for you! See? I’d do anything for you.’ But I’ve had an incredibly brain-frazzling week and I want nothing more than to smoke a few joints with my oldest friend because, frankly speaking, it’s one of life’s greatest pleasures.

And I keep thinking to myself, what am I? A man or a mouse?

Oh, Sally.

Please don’t leave me.

....

In other news, a few people have asked me about the results of the survey. I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait a while longer though. So far, I’ve only received 243 responses, and I’m guessing maybe 10% of those are spoiled (or whatever the word is for surveys that have been opened and pooh-poohed). Apparently that’s still not a bad sample – I was chatting to Frank last night who recently did some work for an internationally renowned arts institute that I swore I would not mention by name, and they commissioned a survey which received around a hundred responses. Fuck the ICA however – no, I’m just kidding, it wasn't them. It really wasn't.

But still, I paid for a thousand respondents, so next week I’m going to try and go after the other 757. At the moment however, I haven’t a clue how to go about it. Any suggestions gratefully received.

Now my fingers are failing and my eyesight is fading fast. Time to drink till I’m drunk, and to smoke till I’m senseless.

Have a great weekend.

Toads

Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?

Sometimes I really despise the things I have to do to make money. However, sometimes the things I have to do to make money bring me into contact with other things – things which other people have to do to make money – which actually make me feel incredibly grateful for my lot. I’ve written a lot of incredibly dull tosh for financial websites for example, and if there’s one thing that really curdles my soul, it’s finance.

I also regularly do proofreading work. Now, if the material’s any good, proofreading can be a delight, money for old rope - let's face it, it's basically reading, which obviously, is one of life’s great joys. Sometimes however, it’s an enormous, spirit-sapping trial. This week for example, I was given an emergency proofing job by an Arab financier who pays me half-decent money to make sense of this garbage:

The “value-glamour effect” makes another overreaction manifestation. Here the focus has moved away from the first past return to the accounting ratios. Considering then for instance the book-to-market ratio (B/M), i.e. relationship with companies own resources versus market capitalization. A company with an high B/M ratio (“value”) has most probably encountered the difficulties in recent past, and therefore penalized as consequence by the investors....

And so on for 300 pages. If I may borrow a phrase from the great poet, Tracy Lauren Marrow, this kind of work throws me headfirst into the very bowels of a 'capitalist migraine'.

So yes, whilst the lovely Barbara Ellen gets to turn off her mind and squat over her laptop, this is how I spend my days. I would genuinely rather lick the sweat from a dead dog’s balls. Genuinely. Find me a job doing exactly that and watch me go. I'd be all over it like a man with six mouths. But no. It's not to be. Dead dogs' balls, like Observer columns, must remain the stuff of dreams...

Speaking of the perils of work, I’m slightly concerned that Keith has been swallowed whole by his own giant toad. I know he’s doing an ad at the moment and that can mean working 16-plus hours a day, but it’s not like him to ignore voice-mails. I’m concerned for two reasons: the last conversation we had was about the possibility of me moving into his flat, and I worry that he might be having second thoughts; and also, I know he was due to get the results from his brain scan this week. I’m sure everything’s fine, but of course... I’m not.

Right. Break over. I have another 50 pages of incomprehensible guff to get through by the end of the day.

Aaaaaaah, work.

Feedback Friday :: All Work And No Play Makes This A Dull Blog

bulk :: 16st 5 (Bollocks bollocks bollocks)
alcohol units imbibed :: 12
cigarettes smoked :: 0 (Hurray!)
joints smoked :: 0
runs run :: 0
swims swum :: 0
writing jobs accepted :: 4
grieving friends comforted :: 1
silver linings :: 1

Typically, just as I’d decided to devote more time to writing stuff that interests me, I got offered a lot more work writing stuff that doesn’t interest me. Which I would be a lunatic to turn down. This means that my entire week has been eaten whole by deadlines. Except for the small part of it which has been dedicated to helping Ange come to terms with the death of her mum.

I never met Ange’s mum, but by all accounts she was a wonderful woman. She’d been ill for a while and she suffered a second stroke last weekend. Then, just as she was recovering from that, she suffered a fatal heart attack. Ange was there when she died. She took it hard, blamed herself, got drunk, had sex with a stranger, cried during the sex, ran home in the middle of the night without any knickers and took the week off work. Then she phoned me on Tuesday in tears. Mutual schoolfriend Karen was also there by the time I arrived. I spent the rest of the week popping back when possible to keep her from beating herself up and helping her arrange the funeral.

The funeral is on Sunday.

Oh, and next Thursday, I am going speed dating. I booked it on a whim, a bottle of wine and a prayer, before I could talk myself out of it.

So next week at least, should be interesting. This week however, all told, has been rotten. I had so many things I wanted to get on with and I couldn’t get on with any of them. One interesting thing however: I received an email from Sally (she of the silver eyes and Araki obsession), asking me how I am. I haven’t replied yet. Because I am cool.

If you’re still reading this, Sally, how do you fancy coming to a funeral on Sunday? Go on, it'll be dead good.

Now I must work.

How very very dull of me.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

RIP Sylvia.