Thursday, March 30, 2006

An undercurrent of change

Winter is officially over, but today is overcast and gloomy. My housemate wore his sarong on Tuesday. A flash of legs means its definitely summer. My drinking habits have been pretty appalling this week, but interestingly enough, my mind is sharper, my resolve stronger, and my mood is lighter. There's something about making an effort to getting back to yourself that puts your relationships in perspective. I am caring less about the worries I used to have, on the basis of the idea that most things we worry might happen don't, and as a result I have had a better week with my boyfriend following the stormy turbulent times of late. Caring but not caring. Last night I saw a really good documentary about the 2002 Venezualan coop, "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised". Afterwards went for drinks with the guys from my writer's group & my housemate Nadege, who all came along to the film. Ed is about 3 weeks away from finishing his 2nd novel. Talked to Derek about journalism stuff. Then met Essex boy at the Suga Cube, where I continued being sensible (1 water + 1 wine). Unfortunately, when I got home, my pesky housemates had decided to throw an impromptu party. An amazing spread filled the entire table and we continued drinking and staining our lips red from too much wine. Mood: Contemplative Listening to:

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Happy Eclipse!

The gloom of winter is lifting, spring is coming in soft gentle (if not freezing) wafts through my window. I'm feeling hopeful. If you are lucky enough to see the eclipse, look up. Going blind is probably better than losing a limb. Although most would probably want to lose an ear than go blind, a finger to an ear, and no one really wants to lose their sanity. Above is the view of my backyard, taken this morning. I was precariously perched on my windowsill.

Monday, March 27, 2006

And you call this dark?

It's been a mopey day. I'm tired of seeing my own reflection in the mirror. My computer's threatening to quit. It's my last week of being officially unemployed so I know I don't have any reason to be disgruntled. I love writing, but novel's are a hard slog. After typing for the past 4 hours, I'm starting to feel I don't really exist and my housemates are probably talking to a hologram. The stuff I have so far is good, if a little disparate. I've got 26k words typed, and another 10-20k more that's handwritten. I'm trying to pace myself so I don't get RSI again. But will it work? I don't know. If I love it and squeeze it hard, will that be enough? The official start date is Monday, 9am. I normally haven't had my first cup of tea by then, but whatever. Hopefully by the time I start, I will have half a novel (the first draft at least). Then after that, I'll have Fridays off to work on the rest. Today I stopped by my friend's shop, where they do drop-in alternative therapy and managed to wrangle a Swedish massage for £12, which is all I have to my name. I haven't had any feeling in one of my hands for the past 3 months, which is a little worrying. At night, both hands go dead. I know it's just a matter of stretching. Something I used to do before I got in with the wrong crowd. Haha. The weekend (after the kebab incident) was relatively disaster-free, although I did drink a lot. Another party Saturday night. Panic attacks about boyfriend, which I kept to myself, then watched him sleep off his hangover all day Sunday. It was pretty thrilling. The highlight of my weekend had to be going to a second party on Saturday with my housemates. Drum n bass and a police line up of MCs in the living room and the wall crawling with 18-year-olds off their heads. Oh yes. Life does not get better. My housemate Steve & I left early, 'round 5am, to retreat to the comfort of our respective beds. While we weren't the oldest people there, we both we'd had enough of the underage scumminess of it all. The above snap is the view out my window, into deepest darkest Hove. I was surprised to notice it had gone dark, despite the extra hour of daylight. It was so warm earlier that I opened my bedroom window, for the first time in months. 'Night.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Religion and body sushi

Last night talk turned to religion. One of the younger rappers has been hanging around some Christian hiphop kids. Heinz was worried that the young rapper was too impressionable and was being brainwashed by his friends. Hence an honest discussion about religion. I seem to be the last person (as always) to find out about the "South Park" incident. If you too are like me, then you wouldn't know that Isaac Hayes became a scientologist and quit "South Park" because of an episode where they take the piss out of Scientology. If you haven't seen it, check it out: On a completely random note, would you ever be paid to let people eat sushi off your naked body? Mood: giggly Listening to: my computer dying

Perhaps there is some hope after all...

My resolve to drink less went out the window yesterday. I spent the whole day painting at the DJ project, along with one of the music trainers and a guy who used to attend session. After a funny experience of painting the floors chocolate brown - no, we didn't paint ourselves into a corner !- we went for a pint at St James's Tavern. Stayed for a few, then moved onto the Black Lion. Heinz got a call to go down to the Full Moon, where one of his friends, another rapper, was working. The hiphop community was representing in full force there, standing in the back corner, as the pub was rammed. I knew I was drunk when a big thick-neck guy bumped into me and I proposed to the boys that they jump him. Heinz shook his head. "You go first and we'll be behind you." I laughed. This was stupid. Essex boy came to collect me after he finished work, and we went on to the Hampton Pub. "I think you should stick to soft drinks," he said. I roared. "You're not the boss of me. Get me two drinks." I really should have stopped when we moved onto the Windmill. Boyfriend makes some comment, I burst into tears, get words of comfort from his best friend, then we're kicked out at closing time. We wandered down to Kambis for a kebab, only they were shut, so we drifted to another one. Boyfriend makes yet another comment and I have him pinned to the wall. He and his best friend leave me in there, and I cry tears over my kebab. I can't believe what an asshole he's being. I leave with kebab in hand, wondering what to do when I see them hailing a taxi. I cross the street and literally chuck the remainders of my kebab at my boyfriend, which doesn't go down too well. They command that I join them in the taxi. Much later, I'm dropped off by myself at home. The taxi driver asks if I'm going to be okay. I tell him I will be and he waits until I'm past the gate to leave. I phoned Essex boy and apologized for my behavior. I told him I'd been trying to pace myself so this didn't happen, drinking lots of water as well as my drinks. I told him I took full responsibility and that I was trying to improve, but obviously lapsed. The amazing thing is that he phoned me back when I was in bed and said he was sorry too - he admitted that he was too hard on me - and that he was coming home. This morning we talked and it was actually good. I feel like we're getting somewhere. We both know what we have to do, and if at least we're trying, then that's gotta be a good start. Sigh. Still, I'm not happy with the amount I drank and I know I still need to keep that to a minimum if I'm going to have a sane, balanced existence. I slept off the hangover and am feeling ok. It's raining. Lots of little birds are skipping around the yard. I've still got paint all over my hands and clothes. Essex boy is bringing home sushi for dinner, then we have a party to go to. I'm planning to have fun and just relax, which, if you knew me, you'd know this is no mean feat. I had a strange dream this afternoon. Essex boy passed away and I kept wishing he'd open his eyes and be alive again. Then before that, I was trying to convince him that we should have a baby before he passed away. It was like being in a parallel existence. I kept remembering this scene in a fellow writer's novel, where the woman was trying to conceive by impregnating herself with her dead lover's ashes. I've never been good at understanding dreams so I have no idea what this one could mean. Having said that, in the past, when someone has passed away in a dream (including myself) I've always discovered my deepest feelings about this person as a result of the dream. For instance, when I was estranged with my mother, I once dreamt she was in a burning house, and I woke up in a cold sweat. I really did care about her. After a few years of not talking, I picked up the phone and we spoke. Maybe I just want sushi. Oh yeah, and apparently my favorite song ("Club Tropicana") is all about bumming in the Mediterranean. Someone once asked me, when I told them how much I loved this song, with a completely incredulous look on their face - "But have you seen the video?" Yes, I have. It's great. Nicked the above rainbow pic from (he's got some lovely pics!) Mood: Groggy Listening to: "Don't let me be misunderstood"

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Thought for the day

"It is vain to summon a people, which has been so rendered so dependent on the central power, to choose from time to time the representatives of that power; this rare and brief exercise of their free choice, however important it may be, will not prevent them from gradually losing the faculties of thinking, feeling and acting for themselves, and thus gradually falling below the level of humanity." - Alexis de Tocqueville, "Democracy in America" I'm thinking about a conversation I had with some American friends last Saturday. An old friend, we went to high school together in Texas, and now he and his wife are living in London for the year. They came down to Brighton with another couple, also American and also living in London. The conversation somehow came onto English people's perception of my friends, how they assumed that they were jaded Americans seeking refuge in the UK. My friend laughed - they were far from being weary escapees, but neither were they happy with Bush and his administration. He hastened to add that he felt a strong urgency to return. "I could never live abroad," my friend said. "I'd feel like I was abandoning it." I told him I didn't feel like I was abandoning our country. I explained that I could vote. "Yeah," quipped one of the friends, "but it's not the same." She said this with a meaningful look, and in the reflection, I saw the demonstrations and the other efforts going on over there. I wasn't part of that. The conversation made me reflect about the relevancy of me being in the States, and then on the work I do now. I work with local residents, often in disadvantaged neighbourhoods, and in many different capacities - but here, in the UK, not in the States. I thought about borders, how they exist for so many, yet are invisible for others. In other ways, can you have borders if what you're doing is good, only not in your own country? I didn't feel bad or scapegoated by the conversation and neither do I feel I'm abandoning my country. What if it abandoned me? And - what difference would it make if I were there? It's something to contemplate. I'm reading "Rules for Radicals" by Saul D Alinsky, the Chicago community activist, which is where I found the above quote. I'm gonna go back to reading. My brain is weary from too much typing and staring at a computer screen.

Day 3 - When you throw your good mood out the window

The righteous and smug should be shot. It's no easy feat changing your habits - living, thinking, or otherwise. For all us poor souls who struggle with our strange little flawed lives, it's life in the valley of the K-hole, without the K. Yesterday was decent. Spent a few hours meeting various friends in Costa Coffee, feeling utterly wiped out. At home I was bored and shifted listlessly between my bedroom, the kitchen and the conservatory. I only drank 2 glasses of wine, with my dinner, then enjoyed a nightcap of lime and camomile tea. My god. I'm only two steps away from wearing flannel pajamas and washing my hair on a Friday night. I've been taking cod liver and flaxseed oil tablets. I have no idea what they do, but since they're from Holland & Barrett, the health food shop, I figure I must be prolonging my life by another 50 years. Today I was a moody motherfucker. Luckily, I was surrounded by others who were more stressed and moody than I was, so that's ok. I really didn't feel like doing the positive thinking thing, although I did experience immense joy writing a review for last Saturday's Slackers and sticking that in the email post. Last night I dreamt I was going through my hair, pulling out all of the grey hairs. I don't really have any in real life. Someone on my course suggested I was contemplating my own ageing process. Hm. My thoughts are on my friend Darkly Scarlett, who phoned me last night. She's having all sorts of bureaucratic problems, which, by comparison, make my problems seem like those few strands of grey hair that I can just rip out and be done with. Ay caramba. My friend doesn't have any karmic baggage to deserve the shitty institutions and people's she's dealing with right now. I hope that the rewards she reaps in this lifetime are Donald Trump sized. I'm hopeful. I also think I've found the missing link, the thing that will solve all of my problems. A certain dealing with unfinished business (recent, not childhood!) that's been lurking in the background for some time. We'll see. Mood: Contemplative What I'm Listening to: "Get Kinky" - Plump DJs

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Day 2 of this positive stuff

I made a fair stab yesterday at going about my day being positive. However, I didn't do too well with my resolve to cut back on the drinking. I met up with an old friend who I hadn't seen in about 6 years. She's a barrister now and was in Brighton for an employment tribunal case. When I was ordering drinks at the Dorset, I thought, 'well, one drink is okay.' One glass of wine led to two, then another two at Food for Friends. I swam home, feeling more pissed than I wanted to be. Then, when I got home, housemates were on the red and of course I just couldn't resist. Duh. So no wonder I woke up with the energy of a slug stuck in a beer trap. Skipped my class, wrote notes and thoughts about my novel, then had a weird sudden burst of energy. I'd had a wobbly moment last night/this morning, and instead of sinking from the flood of emotions, I got positive and began cleaning up my room and washing up dishes. Rome is not built in a day and all long-term change is a slow process, but I think if we try to plant little seeds, we'll sure as hell reap the benefits. Unless of course you have slugs in your garden. Fuck the slugs. Throw them a party. Crack open the beers and watch them sink, laugh in sorrow and happiness, and be certain that the last thought in their tiny minds will be the sheer marvel at their luck. Positive: Having enough money for the train. Buying loads of veg for a mere £3. Dinner with lovely company. Clean room. Someone to snuggle (even if you do think they're a twat sometimes). Struggle: Bureaucracy. Fighting. Feeling stuck. Each day is a brand new day. Thank god. Mood: Hopeful Listening to: "Get Down Massive" - Freestylers

Monday, March 20, 2006

Detox time

I made an important decision yesterday: I'm going to try to adopt a positive outlook on life. Yes, go ahead and tell me how to suck eggs. It's something I've tried and forgotten. But after spending all day Saturday with a group of American friends, I was so impressed by their enthusiasm and genuine niceness. It's time to turn a new leaf. If I'm going to stop sabotaging my own life at every turn then that is the one crucial factor. I had a long long time on Sunday, hungover and bed-ridden, to consider things. What I want and what I don't. And I felt a strong call in my heart, for the first time in ages. Love, in a word. And self-regard. Mood: Fuzzy but happy? What I'm listening to: Pierpoljak (on Fip)

Saturday, March 18, 2006

When you are your worst enemy

I meet Essex boy at a pub along the seafront in Hove called the Alibi. The staff are giving away enormo Irish hats to people who have no shame about wearing such things. Everyone's buying me glasses of red wine. I've got a spot right next to the fireplace, which keeps my backside toasty. Talk amongst the table centres around whether the Royal family boost the national income and about the recent pharmaceutical guinea pig disaster. Then everyone starts taking pictures of each other with their camera phones, which becomes tedious to say the least. I spy Essex boy standing at the Fruit machine and I roll my eyes. However, he returns, spills £30 worth of coins onto the table, and says "That should see us for the rest of the evening." A couple sitting at the edge of the table can't keep their eyes off the pile of money. I worry momentarily that they will really try to pocket some of it. The problem begins when Essex boy starts chatting with two unsightly ladies sitting up at the bar. I go up to introduce myself. One woman, with an especially hard face and set mouth, explains that she is a life coach from Lincolnshire. She tells me my boyfriend is stressed. "Really?" I say, as though I couldn't possibly know that. He works 50+ hours a week doing door-to-door sales. I'd be surprised if he wasn't stressed. A few minutes later, Essex boy introduces her to the table and she proceeds to inform us that he is very stressed. I point out that the guy to my left is his boss and she suddenly freaks out. "I can't believe he's done this to me! He just puts me on this stool and throws me into the deep end. Oh, I really can't believe this." "What?" I say to her. "He didn't force you to do anything. You choose to come sit over here. You choose what to say." Mike's girlfriend goes with her to the toilets, obviously to talk about what a cunt my boyfriend is. I'm fuming because he really didn't do anything wrong and who the hell are these people anyway. What reality have they come here from? I order a taxi because I have really had enough and Essex boy decides to come with. The woman from Lincolnshire tries to tell him off just as we're leaving. "I think she got the wrong idea," I explained to him. "She probably thought because you were chatting with her that you fancied her." "Yeah," he said. "I guess she really did like me." He seemed simultaneously baffled, disgusted and a bit pleased. In the taxi, we continue discussing the situation back at the pub. I tell Essex boy that women in this country aren't used to people just talking to you - they assume if a guy is being friendly and chatty, they're on the pull. Even if he does have a girlfriend. Essex boy defends himself - "But I didn't do anything wrong," he said. "I was just being open. I can't control how people interpret the world." The taxi left us at the Pressure Point, where there was a live funk band. We met KW inside. Essex did the drunken stagger dance, attempting to twirl me around the dance floor. KW did his usual breakdance floor routine. I pointed to my thumb, which was still sore from the last time I sprained it and shook my head - "No way I'm breakdancing." We had a fun time, of sorts. Then around 1.30, Essex boy slowed down and stood there looking sorry for himself. "I think I need to go home," he said. I ordered a taxi. Essex boy started trying to flag one down anyway. As it happened, my supposed ordered taxi never appeared so it was a good thing when one stopped for us. In the taxi, I was still fuming about the pub incident. I felt so bad. Essex boy said I shouldn't feel so threatened all of the time when things like that happen. I just do. I become unreasonably angry, pissy and shout and scream. A row in the taxi ensued, much of it my fault. Essex boy stopped the taxi when we were 5 minutes away from our house and got out. He stayed the night with his friends and I had the bed to myself. He phoned me this morning and said we really needed to consider whether we were going to make this work, or call it a day. He tells me we've made it this far because he's really in love with me, but he says he's not sure if he has the time or energy to work out all of our problems. "I'm sorry if that sounds selfish," he says. I've got a beautiful creamy white and pink rose with a thick solid stem on my desk. It was the expensive rose I bought him to cheer him up. He'd had an especially bad day at work on Thursday and I wanted to do something nice. He hasn't seen the rose yet. I decided against taking it out last night when I went to meet him at the pub. I was afraid it would be trampled and die in the course of the evening. Now I'm not even sure if a rose will be the necessary glue to keep us together. One of my housemates, recently single after 6 years, says it kills him to see couples who spend years in relationships that should have ended long ago. I worry myself to an early grave that that's all Essexboy and I are doing. Keeping something alive for the sake of it. It seems if only I could laugh things off, I would get an easier ride in life. Stop being so angry about every little thing. This is my own prognosis, not anyone else's opinion. Is change truly possible? Is so, how and when?

Thursday, March 16, 2006

The thawing process

Spent 3 hours out in the Laines getting quality snowbite in my fingers for these mo-fos today. I stood on the corner outside Kensington Gardens with Chris, a crazy Russian woman and the Polish couple who have a stand selling amber jewellery. We spent the time telling bad jokes. Unfortunately, my repretoire is severely lacking these days. "How many Vietnam Vets does it take to change a lightbulb?" "I don't know. How many?" " 'You weren't fucking there man!!' " Chris, the tall white guy with dreads, shares my birthday. He's one year younger than me, but looks quite a few years older. Comparing celebration notes from our recent 30-something moments, he said he missed one of the best parties, in his own house, by crashing out. He was so comatose that he drifted down the stairs bucknaked, unaware that all of his friends were partying there after a near police stand-off in the pub. Apparently, the Council are considering banning flyering on the streets. I hope they get rid of the street charity people while they're at it. I got accosted by one in London last Friday, collecting for the Alzeihemers Society. Even though I explained to the guy that I was unemployed, broke, already gave my meagre £3 a month to Save the Children AND had worked with elderly clients with Alzeihemers, he carried on with his schpeal. "So do you know how Alzeihemers affects the carers and families?" "Yes. My last client was a carer for her husband." "Let me tell you more." "No. I really understand. It's a completely sympathetic cause." "Are you sure you don't want to know the statistics?" "No." It was like talking to a machine, only my computer makes more appropriate replies. I wished the collector a good weekend - what other humane could I do? - and carried on walking towards Victoria. The thing I couldn't get today when I was flyering - why people think they're doing such an absolute act of charity just by accepting a flier for me? Conversely, why do people look so scared? It's only Brighton, for fuck's sake! Mood: Animated but tipsy Listening to: breaks set

Winter is on the decline, some experts say

I'm hoping this is true. Observation 1: I've recently come to the conclusion that sweaters, second down from shorts, are the biggest fashion faux paux. Over the past few months, bad heating in my room has meant I've taken to wearing these oversized bright sweaters (jumpers, whatever) ALL OF THE TIME. I'm really hating myself. They're not bad-looking sweaters. Someone gave me a few and I thought, what the hell? They're free. No. I look like a mid-90s throwback. It is not a good state of affairs. I'm sorry this isn't very deep - I'm not in one of those moods. On the ultra plus side, I got a job. The days of scraping the last of pesto and nicking slabs of bacon is officially over. Thank fuck. We all know that poverty leads to an early grave. The only consolation I have is that if that were the case, I would be embalmed and used in a performance art piece. Rollerskating figure eights around my body while vodka is spat in my face. Who the hell needs 15 minutes of fame when you can have it for an eternity? Observation number 2: The sun is not coming out today, unlike the teasing mildness of yesterday. Okay. I can live with that, albeit sans sweater. But - my toothpaste keeps falling off my toothbrush into the sink. Isn't that a sign I'm not really an adult? Apparently, Posh Spice never smiles for the paparazzi because she's ashamed of her teeth.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Don't phone in sick - phone in dead

The devil's got me by the throat. I woke up coughing up daggers and unsavory phlegm. A maniacal mariachi band on crack plays in the horizon. I wake up at 3am and find the scribbling of a madman all over my dry erase board. It's going to be a good day.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Sneeze O'Clock

I think I'm getting a cold. Heavy exhaustion was my bed-side companion when morning came, and thick flurries of sleep made it difficult to snap into consciousness. I was lucky to have a cup of tea delivered to me, followed by several more. I wanted to blame it on something I'd done over the weekend. Farewells at Audio, staying up chatting with friends til 5am, then falling asleep by fire embers on the living room floor. But there was little hedonism and lack of sleep rarely bothers me to that extent. I trudged up to the Job Centre in Portslade, which feels like the other end of the earth, but in actuality, it only took me 45 minutes to walk. I stood outside with a group of teenagers who were wondering if there was a better life than low-level jobs and collecting their dole money. I'm reading Don DeLillo's "Libra", something I've been meaning to read for years. It's been on my bookshelf and I'd never been in the mood to start it. It's an interesting account on the assassination of JFK, fleshing out a particular theory of CIA involvement and the story of the event's much-celebrated anti-hero, Lee Harvey Oswald. It's a dense read, compared to the last book I read, which was Mark Haddon's "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time". I seem to be the last person on the planet to have read that book, I know. I spent two hours this morning pouring over the Guardian website and applying for jobs. Now I need to spend some time plotting and writing. No - not on any political maneuverings. Just a 2nd novel ! I'm 55 pages + into the story, but according to Dickie, I just need to 'pound it out'. If only writing novels were as simple as that.

Friday, March 03, 2006

Put uncertainty on a job application

It's another day of slogging my guts out on the job search. When you're looking for a new job, there's always the feeling of some exciting unknown future that awaits, but along the way, the wait is as excruciating as being held up in Newark airport for 5 hours and menial jobs like sweeping floors and serving coffee suddenly take on a new appeal. Why? In a moment of self-determination (ie I can go out there and get work), I applied at Cafe Nero. I don't know why. I haven't received any phone calls and the place stinks of chessy jazz, European students, men in suits and the general Hove ilk who all seem to have nothing better to do in the middle of the day. On a positive note, I've been getting lots of encouraging emails about the book. My mom is apparently buying the whole stock. I don't know what I'll do in 20 years time when I find she has 50 of them. She says she's saving them. On a not-so-positive note, my only-child tantrums have reached a critical point and my boyfriend has reached breaking point with it all. What he calls verbal diarrhea is what I thought was my effort to communicate. It didn't comfort him when I told him it was all probably due to hormones. You thought he'd be happy that my period started. I've been reading all sorts of crap about self-acceptance. It seems like a good thing to do once you've past the 30 mark and you realise you're stuck with what you've got: you. Wholly loveable and imperfect, despite the packaging and health warnings that are stuck all over you like you're some building site where they've discovered secret nuclear waste. current mood: confused current song: the sound of my computer dying, but Morissey is playing next door (could it get any worse?)

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Fucking hell !

Have you heard about this? An 18-year-old in Kent was fined £80 for swearing when talking to a friend on the street. This is outrageous. The war on anti-social behavior in the UK is getting worse, and I think young people are being treated badly. Yeah, no one wants to be terrorised by a bunch of ASBOs who are throwing rocks at your window, but it seems any person under the age of 21 is being targetted simply for exisiting. In Brighton, Churchill Square has banned anyone from wearing hoodies up. If you were a 45 year old sporting a hoodie, I'm sure that'd be fine. Under 18? Forget it. BBC Kent News Metro The lone voice of approval of the fine comes from some old geezer in Wales, who called it a 'sensible' response to public swearing: "So it is natural for us "oldies" to applaud when someone does something about disrespect." I'm a Welsh twat Fuck off. Swearing is one of the most free and enjoyable freedoms I can think of. I want the police to protect people from all of the idiots on West Street who think it's okay to touch women, after spending hours getting legally leg-less. I want them to combat white collar crime and go after all of the millionaires who cheat the system via use of tax shelters and paying workers wages that they can't even live on. Stop shitting on people from great heights. Fining young people will never force respect from them.

Info about Alt Future

I'm very proud. It's my first story publication - that is, the first work of fiction in a book. Spam (Why Drinking Coffee Is a Human Right, Feb 06) doesn't count because it was largely true - apart from offering to buy the homeless guys coffee! The anthology includes ten writers and is a good read. The book is on sale from QueenSpark directly and also at bookstores in Brighton. As soon as I find where they've hid the film project I helped on, I'll let you know. It includes clips of the films my students made, including Ron's fascinating account of the Czech scroll they've been safeguarding in their synagogue after it was purged during the war. It's a long story, which I'll share later. Absolutely mind-blowing. If you want to purchase the book, go to right column under the section "Read Me". I shamelessly bought two, one for myself and one for my mom in Texas. It's the only decent thing I've written I could probably show her.

Launch aftermath

Last night was the QueenSpark launch at Brighthelm, where they launched heaps of work they've been doing like archiving the past 30 years of books, a new website, new books and the film project I was involved with, "Faith in Brighton." They also launched the anthology "Alt-future", which included one of my short stories ! A great night. The wine was pouring. I ate the nibbles on all of the tables. Saw the guys I worked with on the film project and Rob & Tim from my writer's group were there as well. Celebrations continued at the Nelson and then on to SugarQube where I met up with Dickie. So many drinks. I knew it was a foolish move not to eat dinner. Still, my hangover is less a hangover and more a permanent state of dumbness. I've taken the edge of with a massive cup of tea and a bowl of pesto pasta. Today's my meeting with fate: an interview with the Job centre. I'm hoping they'll see I'm well unemployed and I'm half hoping they'll give me a job there. That'd be an interesting one. Got a text from DS yesterday: "D-day!I'm in the studio!" She's agreed to have her curly black mane cut off for charity by some famous hairdresser and it was all captured on the Today show. I've suggested a scarf a la Sarah Jessica Parker in "Sex and the City". It's a look. Gonna stare numbly in my cup of tea for a while and see if I can see something in my future beyond being a twat. current mood: stupid current song: 4Hero "Mr Kirk's Nightmare"
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