A curious coincidence

Cooler today. Donned the socks that Joan knitted. Transpires that Calliope keenly attracted to them and had my toe bitten quite hard at one point.

Also keenly feeling the fact my desktop computer is still not working. If the last Dell estimate of delivery is to be believed, I should have the software midweek. The jobs which are making me feel most anxious because they are not done, such as the anthology of Guernsey stuff, and starting phase two of the Skelton Yawngrave campaign, require me to have that computer.

Got a text to say that Phil and Ash, of my old agency Dell posse, have had a little girl today. An eight pounder, which is excellent news for them.

Otherwise, I worked on three poems and generally made them worse. Sat in Starbucks for a change of scene and tinkered over a large skinny latte. I read Richard's poems for the book, and some of them are wonderful. It is strange that when I read his work there are things in it that I have half thought of writing about but have failed to do so. To see them successfully achieved is strangely comforting.

Phoned late afternoon by John Hamilton of EQ Studios, who was put in touch with me by Wynford. He is toying with putting poems to music, and so I sent him a few to see if they'd butter his parsnips. Seemed like a nice guy. Naturally I told him at some length about the project that Matt and I are doing. Strange how putting my words to music has never happened before, and now there are two people interested in doing so. A curious coincidence.

Lorraine came here at 10:30, as all the beds are being used at her house. She also returned my jams, which was good news. She and First Matie are meeting up after work tomorrow to discuss a pick axe.

Lorraine saves the day

Coffee and toast and a long chat with Mum and Mase this morning. Made sure I had scored several jams before we left, as Mum's jams are rather splendid. Lorraine and Mum conferring about jam making and looking at old cook books.

Then off to Brighton again, to meet Lorraine's mum and dad who were staying with Lorraine before flying off to Ireland to visit Lorraine's excellently named brother Kenny Peter. When we were driving along, I was struck suddenly by something that I'd never thought before: that the motorway was actually quite a beautiful thing. We were driving on a four lane motorway, and the cars were all travelling at the same speed, almost in formation. Not sure why it struck me as beautiful, but it did.

Anyway, Lorraine parked the car at the road at the end of my Twitten and I popped in to feed Calliope and drop some bits off. Emerging from my house after a couple of minutes I saw a rather disturbing scene. Lorraine was between two cars, one of which had collided into another, and she was supporting a man trapped between the vehicles. Later it became clearer what had happened: the handbrake had come off in a big car that the man had parked on the hill. This had rolled back and trapped his legs.

Lorraine, who had been waiting for me, ran out and helped his support his weight, and also held him and talked to him. He was in a good deal of pain and slipping in and out of consciousness. As the services turned up the firemen eventually freed him, and he was conscious when taken away. Much later Lorraine called the hospital and found that he was okay, and spoke to his wife who she had comforted lots too. I stood about feeling slightly useless, but also full of admiration for Lorraine. People very nice. The family of the man were invited into a house opposite, and the guy from the local cafe came out with a tray of teas for everyone, and offering help. The Battle of Trafalgar emptied out with blokes coming to move the car, but were told not to.

After, Lorraine was rather shaken but okay. One of the policemen said she had been a brick, and the firemen were very impressed with her too. Her old ward sister training kicked in, but it is different going into work expecting to deal with crises, rather than having one just thrust upon her. Lorraine is a splendid person.

We met her parents Pat and Maureen in the Basketmakers some time later for Sunday lunch and for Lorraine a much needed glass of shandy. I thanked Maureen for organising my airing cupboard when she and Pat were housesitting for me. Organisation is an excellent thing.

By happy accident that Matt was in there too, with a friend John, and we all sat on a table and had a really nice roast. The Basketmakers is rapidly becoming one of my favourite Brighton Pubs. Eventually Lorraine and Pat and Maureen left, and I hung about with Matt and John, discussing our project and also, at some length, death. I really like Matt which is handy in a collaborator.

Home to chat to Lorraine by phone, and delight in Chelsea beating Manchester United on match of the day. But shortly before I went to bed, I realised with horror that Lorraine had used all the drama of the day to steal the jars of jam Mum had given me.

Mick Ginty's wedding to Lucy

Very tired today, but after I scored a much needed haircut up to London in Lorraine's car to stay with Mum and Mase. Or, slightly more accurately, to treat their place like a hotel.

Was phoned by Wynford, who lives next door to Mum and Mase, before we left saying someone from a recording studio would be getting in touch to record some of my poems. Not sure what this completely out of the blue business is all about, but it seems quite interesting.

After a pitstop, up to Hatfield House where Mick Ginty was having his wedding reception. An amazing place, and I'd never been inside it. In our banquet room were huge tapestries hanging from the walls, and centuries old portraits, where everyone was depicted with disproportionately small heads.

Mick and his bride Lucy, who I'd never met, but who seemed very pleasant and attractive, were naturally having a lovely time. It did my heart good to see Mick at such an excellent moment. He and Lucy disappeared and re-emerged sporting some interesting clothes, Mick in a fetching red hat decorated with feathers. His new father in law, garbed temporarily in Elizabethan clothes, supplied a brief discourse about the history of the building, how Elizabeth I was there sitting under a tree when she learned that she would become Queen. The father in law misspoke at this point and actually said "shitting under a tree". Cue stifled snickering.

Mick and Lucy did the obligatory first dance. Then a young but very versatile covers band got going, after which Mick and Lucy seemed to do a good deal of dancing. Lorraine and I got talking to several people, including one ex colleague called Paul, who is now successfully selling mortgages.

Melted away into the night, with big drops of cold rain ending what had been a lovely sunny day. Home to Mum and Mase, who fed us a large Mason special sandwiches before we slid off to bed.

Below poor photos... But they give you an idea. Mick and Lucy, the hall, and the famous speech.

No place like it

Home today: sadly the place looked like a bomb had hit it. Oh the constantly depressing absence of servants.

Calliope thoughtfully woke me at 6:30, so had an early start, tidying up, laundry, shopping, paying bills (prompted a text from Southern Water on my mobile phone about taking further action) paying my glamorous accountant etc. Calliope content having been given frozen prawns, which seems to be the only food she actually likes.

Met Klaudia and Oskar's Godmother Anna while zooming about. Anton says that makes her my Godwife but surely this is wrong. Her little daughter India looks really cute. Anna's mum had been taken ill last week, but seems to be recovering excellently, and she was going home to Bristol see her tonight. Anna said that after she heard the news she stuttered for four days.

Bought a new kettle. My expensive kettle simply stopped working. But at least it didn't suffer the same fate as its electric predecessor: being melted on the hob by the Tobster. Caught up with correspondence and tinkered ineffectually with poems. Richard sent me some really useful feedback on my latest offering, however. The afternoon, a blessed hour's nap on my gold sofa, with Calliope making happy feet as she slept on top of me.

Got feedback from the agency about the work Sean and I had done. Apparently it went down so well with the client, that they won't need me there next week to do amends on it. Talk about being too skilled for your own good. However very happy about having a PK week, as there are a million things that need doing.

To the Battle of Trafalgar this evening, where Lorraine and I put the world to rights over beers and peanuts. The large pub dog sitting with its chin on my thigh for some time, which would have had Anton spilling his beer. Home to cheese on toast, and snoozing on the sofa.

Held responsible

Up to London. Popped in to see my glamorous accountant and hand over things I'd signed. Then into the agency. A long and slightly trying day. But all well when I left at sevenish, the first neuropathic pain work coming to a raging climax today. Interestingly, Richard the visualiser was using a Tablet PC, allowing him to draw directly onto the screen of his computer. Really cool, and makes amending the image really fast, without having to start again like traditional visualisers. Slunk off leaving the ever suffering art director (in this case Sean) to see the work through.

Feeling tired on the train home, half looking out at the occasional firework bursting in the sky while listening to Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk. It is a series of linked short stories, in a style the author calls Transgressive Fiction. The opening story, Guts, which I mentioned the other day is without exaggeration, and by some way, the single most disgusting thing I have ever read. Apparently people faint when he does public readings of it.

Got this email from Carl today, its subject was "I hold you responsible".

I have been very disturbed to find that my own dear sweet daughter has secretly been indulging in a dangerous pastime. Not drugs, not alcohol, not cigarettes. Far worse - writing poems!

So far she has only written 3 (that I have seen) but who knows where this habit could lead. I have been racking my brains where she could have been exposed to people who do this sort of thing. And then I thought of YOU.

If my daughter continues with this habit I will hold you responsible. I have shown her some of your work as a warning to where this could lead but it seems only to encourage her.

Incidentally she has read Skelton Yawngrave and she said it was really funny and easy to read. I really hope you get it published.

Hoping to get some pigs in with you soon. Your OCP* Carl

*Old China Plate

Untaxing

Up to London for another day on neuropathic pain. Refreshingly, the new creative director reframes things interestingly, and stretches the creative work. Sean and I have been asked to work Thursday too, and then have a long weekend off before a few days next week.

After work I met Mark Hill and Robbie in the Blue Anchor for a few swifties. The place redesigned from when I used to go there. But done quite tastefully. Heard about Mark's tour of Europe, which he is hoping to get a book out of, and discussed ways to get agents. Robbie on good form too, telling us about his new Swedish girlfriend. Made off fairly quickly, and bumped randomly into Paul on a platform at Victoria, returning from visiting his son.

Home to my accounts sent by my glamorous accountant, and a calculation of the tax I need to pay. Luckily, it turns out I have saved quite a bit more that I owe. This means my financial cushion is suddenly a lot plumper that I'd thought. Went to bed feeling lucky, and more secure than of late.

Train time

Back in the train limbo. Working on poems going up to London, looking afresh at my old Guernsey work for the project I am doing with Richard next year. Fortunately there are several improvements that leap out at me right away. The stuff I've done about Guernsey is surprisingly coherent over the years.

Into the agency and working with Sean again, getting blood from a stone on the neuropathic pain brief. Nothing much to report, although we had a few laughs as we struggled with it.

The train home, obsessionally playing the brick breaker game on my mobile phone, and listening to a disgusting audio book by Chuck Palahniuk called Haunted. First story featured a boy masturbating underwater, having his small intestines sucked out by the pool pump. I have rarely felt so revolted by anything. I can't decided if it was depraved or brilliant.

A singing school

Up to the smoke yet again, after bribing Calliope with prawns. Absurd, but I feel quite guilty about leaving her alone during the days.

A long mondayish Monday. However still managed to have something of a laugh with Sean, while we worked on the interminable neuropathic pain. After work I bumped into Craig on the street on the way back to the station. He had Eva with him, and they were waiting for Matty boy.

I however was unable to stop, as I had to shoot home as I was due to meet my other friend Matt the composer. Went to where he was rehearsing his choir, who were learning Handel's Messiah. Sitting there listening to them made me feel Christmassy, and as if I were in an episode of Inspector Morse.

They were rehearsing in a room next to St Michael's church in Brighton, where we are thinking of staging This concert will fall in love with you. There is an area in the church which will be perfect, and room for 100 seats. Chatting to Matt about all the possibilities of the venue, which seem many and various. Tried to picture myself in there doing the biz, listening to Matt's music. The vision not clear yet.

Home at 10 chatting to Lorraine on my mobile phone, and then had to do some work before slouching into bed past midnight.

This concert will fall in love with you

I wrote a strange pamphlet during a full moon a year and a half ago, called This book will fall in love with you. I sent this along with some other poems to Matthew Pollard (a good friend of Lorraine's) who is a composer and conductor. Turns out he wants to set some of this to music, and give it a few performance in the Brighton Fringe Festival next spring. We met in The Basketmakers this evening to discuss the project, and after an hour or so were joined by Lorraine. I'm very excited by the prospect of performing again, and this time with wonderful new music.

These conversations conducted amid Halloween revelries. This being Brighton, at least a third of the people you saw wandering about on the street or in the pub were dressed as ashen faced zombies, mummies, or had weapons protruding from skulls, or there were those who were just liberally splashed with fake blood. Only one person really caught my attention, before it was dark even. He was walking along down the street looking quiet normal except for his eyes, which vertical slits for pupils.

Being rather excited by our new project Matt and I and Lorraine had a couple more drinks, then dropped into the Brighton Tavern (again crawling with the undead). Bumped into Linda, who had put me in touch with the local publisher, Paul, who I hope to meet soon.

Earlier, I had been up the hill to Anton and Anna's house. Chatted with Anna who I hadn't seen for ages, and with Klaudia who showed me the witchy hat she was going to wear. Oskar sat on my lap, seized my nose, and asked me why it was so big.

Anton then drove, Oskar and I north to Balcome for a short walk in the country. It really was idyllic. Bright weather, with a hint of mist, and the colours of Autumn in full flush. We walked across a field down into boggy places crossed by a plank walkway, which Oskar enjoyed. Anton full of pride seeing his son, still only three and a half, striding off into the country with his walking stick and Tomas the Tank Engine rucksack. The bells of a church were being rung, and for at least half an hour the peals rolled down the hill past the oaks and the yew trees to us.

After Oskar got tired, we went for a quick drink in the Half Moon at Balcome, clearly a local pub for local people. Anton drove us home, out of the late sunshine, to the Brighton side of the downs which were cloudy and damp.

Below Klaudia, Oskar in the wild and with Anton.

Windbaggery

The best part of this week is that I have made a new friend in the form of Sean the art director. He is a very funny guy and we have been setting each other off during the week. However having got everyone happy with the neuropathic pain work by the morning, it was all, rather comically, blown out of the water by the new creative director last thing in the afternoon. Sean and I, however, have been asked back for next week to continue working on it. This at least means a few more doubloons in the Kenny coffers.

Home at eightish, and took myself to the pub to wait for Lorraine. Had a slow pint reading my recently purchased copy of the first edition of Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth and Coleridge. I wanted to discover any thinking that Richard and I can use. But Ancient Mariner aside, its poems really are tripe and onions. While I can appreciate his historical importance, The Prelude aside, I have always found Wordsworth to be a tiresome windbag.

Very tired this evening too, and repaired home shortly after Lorriane's arrival in the pub.

Dive bomber

A poor night's sleep. Lorraine stayed overnight, and Calliope persisted in her new habit of dive bombing her. The cat leaps unexpectedly from the window sill or the headboard onto Lorraine's ribs while she is asleep. Lorraine increasingly cross.

Up to London. Reading Mervyn Peake on the train in the morning, and then simply looking out of the window Listening to minimal music. An arduous day, but okay. Worked through lunch and a little late with Sean, and had a few pleasant conversations with old colleagues. Home to fish and chips. Looking forward to the end of the week and getting started on PK stuff again for a week.

Below crow and river bed.

River vultures

Back up to Glamoursmith. Feeling oddly optimistic, despite the day being potentially a tricky one. But the work we are doing on neuropathic pain progressed quite well. I enjoyed talking to Sean who is a funny guy, and it turns out is working on a sitcom with his usual writing partner.

Initial booking was for two weeks, but it seems like it is just one now, with a possible second week in a weeks' time. This works out well for me however, as it means I can get on with the Anthology.

A short lunchtime mooch by the river. Even more cormorants today, gathering like river vultures. As I walked spoke to Lorraine and an uncharacteristically gloomy Betsy, who is working on an arduous and unrewarding job from home.

Finished Goodbye to all that today. Well worth a read if you are interested in WW1 or writers. Due to computer still being in limbo till new software arrives next week, I am have been unable to download any more books, so instead I am listening to a podcast about ancient egypt, while simultaneously achieving a record score on my brickbreaker phone game on the return journey.

Home and a tired Lorraine brought around a delicious curry in a tupperware container. Then we went out to meet Cath for a drink in the Batty, and began to discuss Lorraine's limboish house move. Nothing seems to be happening and her estate agent useless as, well, an estate agent.

Old paths

Off again to the smoke. Calliope yowling at me from the Twitten. Dragging myself unwillingly towards Glamoursmith, familiar walk through the graveyard. I'm getting on fine with Sean, although it is an odd situation. Being thrown together with someone you've never met, and tasked with coming up with lots of great ideas. But also quite fun too. I'm finding it tricky however being back in my old agency. Falling into familiar patterns, such as walking along the river path at lunchtime. I talked to Pat who was in Dundee for a football match, while I was looking at cormorants sunning themselves like little devils on the piles in the river.

Homeward train listening to the Robert Graves Goodbye to all that. Horribly fascinating, going from most of the book about the trenches, to postwar records of conversations with people like Sassoon, T.E. Lawrence, and even Thomas Hardy. Home and no nonsense business such as changing the water in the fishtank, with the cat paying great attention.

Below a cormorant on the Thames.

Not such a pain

Up to London to work at my old agency. My adage of ending well, standing me in good stead here. And I find myself doing some concepting work on neuropathic pain, which is pain without an obvious cause. Working with a freelance art director called Sean who lives in Birmingham. Quite a bit of snickering over concepts, and we got on pretty well. A pleasant enough day. Bumped briefly into Matty boy, worked through lunch with Sean.

Feeling excited about the prospect of my poems being set to music by Matt the composer. Be fascinated to see how this new project pans out.

Couldn't wait to get home, however. Listening to Robert Graves Goodbye to all that on the train, about his experiences in the trenches: a first hand account of how unbelievably stupid and badly organised the whole business was. Home to a clingy Calliope who after much purring and so on, went into bad behavior mode, crawling into all the bad places such as the cupboard under the aquarium, and doing all the bad things she could think of, such as shredding the toilet roll again to punish me for being away all day.

A sunny Sunday

A day without inflicting more boozes on the shrivelled raisins of my kidneys. Instead, Lorraine and I mooched about looking at embroidery thread, and books. I bought Wordsworth and Coleridge's Lyrical Ballads to see if there were any tips I can pick up for my project with Richard in Guernsey, as well as shorter fictions by Mervyn Peake called a Boy in Darkness and other stories with an introduction by Sebastian Peake. Had a nice time lurking about by the sea, drinking a coffee people watching in the sun, flags horizontal in the strong wind.

Home and I cooked and Lorraine got busy on a weaving contraption, which caused her to swear somewhat and be very quiet.

Emails today... From Jane and from Richard, who is going to publicise the Anthology of Guernsey site tomorrow. And also a note from Matt suggesting we meet up to discuss a music and poetry project next week. All jolly good. Ended the day by watching Manchester United get beaten on Match of the Day. I thoughtfully texted Anton to let him know it was on, but he failed to reply.

Below: October sun.

Matty in the Batty, then ratty

A rainy an uninviting day. Went to Sainsbury's early, and returned to cook breakfast for myself and Lorraine. Matty called to say he was coming down to Brighton, and then to say he was in the Battle of Trafalgar. Met up with him, First Matie, Tash and her relatively new boyf Steve, and two friends of Matt called Matt and Jenny. Ended up having yet another rather boozy afternoon. After everyone had left to go to a party, Lorraine and I were possessed of the idea of having a curry, failing to persuade First Matie to join us, we grabbed a taxi.

Nice meal, but I banged my head on the ceiling of the toilets in our usual restaurant. This was followed about ten minutes later by an undignified altercation in the street after a man walked into me for absolutely no reason. I invited him to fuck off, and was told to pack it by some bouncers outside a nightclub.

Thus chastised Lorraine and I managed to make it home with no further adventures, and instead watched a fabulous edition of Later with Jools Holland. Guests including Smokey Robinson, and a strange band called Miike Snow who was splendid. Also Jack White's new band The Dead Weather, Yoko Ono, African musician Bassekou Kouyate and DJ duo Basement Jaxx. Just a fine show and mix of music.

To bed.

Cometh the hour, cometh the Manvinder

Decided to try to maintain equilibrium today. Did what work I could on my laptop, and in the afternoon Sam came by and tried a few fixes on my computer. He zips between windows and makes lightening fast decisions on things, incredibly quickly. Had a nice chat in between various strategies.

I ended up calling the Dell software helpline and actually got a rather efficient and helpful guy called Manvinder, who has reinstalled vista. I have decided to upgrade to Microsoft Windows 7, which supersedes the universally despised Vista. I noticed today on the Dell website that there were downgrades available - to change your Vista back to XP (the preceding system, which shows just how much it sucked). Meanwhile, Manvinder rather amazed when I asked him if he were Sikh. Always seems to surprise the helpline guys in India when you know anything about their country.

And on an even more positive note, I've got another call from my old agency to do some work on neuropathic pain over the next couple of weeks. This quite handy, as it keeps the wolf from the door, and pays for computer fiascoes. It means I will have to commute to London for the next couple of weeks. This gives me plenty of opportunity though to catch up with some old muckers. So all well.


Lorraine came by this evening. Had a Chinese takeaway after a cheeky glass of beer in the Caxton.

Infernal day

Hellish day spent trying to fix computer. Good news is that I have harvested all files, photos, tunes etc. from it. I also have an old trusty laptop. Bad news is that after 5 'helpline' conversations and reloading Vista (so inferior to XP it's not even funny) my computer is, technically speaking, utterly fucked, and I have no idea what to do about it. Initial crash sparked by a Windows update. After reloading vista, windows updates returned and crashed it even worse so that it can't even be turned on properly. Turns out my three year dell warranty only covers hardware, so fixing this is going to take some serious cash, which is badly timed.

After some eight hours of this futile soul sapping, I left home and met Lorraine for a couple of calming beers and some light Japanese food. This much the best part of the day.

Interestingly, I have also been in contact with Sebastian Peake, Mervyn Peake's son, who has kindly given me permission to use a photo of his father in Sark on my Anthology site.

Torment by PC

Dreamed about a poem I have been writing, which was weird, and in the dream the hidden symbolism of it was explained. Working hard all day on Anthology of Guernsey stuff, plus working on a couple of poems. However any progress I have made was offset by my desktop PC. There was an update waiting which needed a computer restart, which I kept postponing while I finished my work.

When I turned my computer again it will not start, and automatically closes down. It only works now in safe mode. Tried a million things to fix it. Bah. Watched footie on TV in the evening to try to forget.

A tourist in London

Up to London today for some sustained pottering. Met Keith for a cheeky beer at lunch in Glamoursmith and, later, armed with some birthday Waterstones tokens, went to the biggest bookshop in Europe (a Waterstones) on Piccadilly. Surprisingly predictable books, however. I had a mental list of books to buy, and only one was there: a collection of poems by Mervyn Peake, as not only is he a fascinating writer, he also lived in Sark for a few years. Enjoyed a coffee on the fifth floor, however, where I could log onto my crotchtop and enjoy the most expensive scone in history.

Found myself wandering about London. It seemed full of tourists today, and I was asked twice to take photos, one man who I think was from Brazil wanting a picture of himself with Nelson's column.

In the evening to Wimbledon to meet Marja and Sarah for a long overdue gossip, and was bought supper. Both have had some trying times lately. I came away feeling grateful for the course of my own life. From Wimbledon to East Croydon by tram, and then home at midnight.

Below the Landseer lions in Trafalgar Square, the Buxton Memorial to commemorate the emancipation of slaves, and a building seen from East Croydon station. Amazing what a bit of creative lighting can do.