I'm not sure today has actually started
I'm about to do some writing, for the first time in - hang on, let me check the date - okay, this is bad. I've stopped writing done the date when I write in my notebook. So the last date I have recorded is 17th October. There's a few pages after that one so it's been awhile even for me to scrawl my dream in a half conscious state.
I woke up at 10 something am and it was grey outside my window. I started reading a new story in the Akashic Las Vegas Noir collection in bed. I love reading in bed.
When I was a kid, I used to invent new ways of going in late to school so that I could read for a few more hours.
Collections of coffee mugs with moldy remains of orange juice gathered like rats beneath my bed. Stacks of book tripped me up when I got up to go to the bathroom.
I used to be scared of the things beneath my bed when I was very young, and now I live with the unthinkable: my futon rests on the floor. Now I lie awake with irrational fears residing somewhere else.Unlike most people in England, I don't complain about the cold wet weather that comes in like a bitter brew in the autumn. Maybe it's because I didn't have to grow up in it. The streaks of light that come in aren't inspiring, but unless you have to work outdoors, I don't see how it can really matter (unless you have holes in your shoes and then that's a real pain).
After getting a few pages in, I decided I needed a cup of tea, and as soon as I'm up to switch the kettle on, that's it. I'm up.
Mikey's still away in Reading so I have the house to myself. I made a simple breakfast - fried tomato with coriander and basil, eggs, bacon, hashbrowns leftover from last night's dinner, and coffee. I washed up all of the dishes, laughing along to Mark Steel on the radio, tidied all of the random bits of post and cds and dj set lists and stuff that just seems to accumulate on the end of the counter like some built up city.
The rain is crackling and pinging while I download Opera. I have to agree with Mark - it's a lot better than Flock. A browser for different moods.
The writer's group email discussion about Brand and Ross rages on and I check for updates.
Talk has branched out considerably, after a long debate over which aspect of the furor people thought was worth complaining about.Derek: "Yes, the power of the people has made the Xmas TV schedule marginally more palatable." Ed: "Let's face it, Derek, what you are really saying is that you love Hitler LOL" Steve: "Surely the real victims here are the Spanish? ¡¡¡Maldígale para su Sachs de estereotipia viciosa!!!" Tara: "I once saw Jonathan Ross on This Is Your Life, the most brilliant piece of TV. It was so obvious that everyone on it hated him, you could have cut the atmophere with a knife. Vic and Bob arrived half an hour late and blind drunk, great stuff. I bet there's a lot of happy people in Soho today..."
Me: "I can't believe no one has mentioned the fact that they are totally coked up.........."
Convo has since moved onto: Amy Winehouse, celebrity culture, fear and anxiety, the Daily Mail, the unconscious mind, and opportunism.
Okay - off to write. I'm making the most of being indoors. Later I'm being turned into a zombie, but I'll be able to keep my pajamas on for that one.