Gallivanting at midnight
Dropping to sleep last night, when two students - clearly on something - took to kicking a recycling box along the Twitten (it boomed like a drum) and shouting incredibly loudly and laughing hysterically. After running up and down half a dozen times, and pushing each other into my tiny front garden, into my rosebush, I'd had enough and stalked out hastily dressed in socks and jeans and teeshirt - at which point there was some legging it. My new next door neighbour was out too, bless her. She and her husband haven't moved in properly yet, but asked me rather despairingly if it was always like this. I assured her that it wasn't always like this. The gallivanters had broken out of a party, and she talked to them excellently, and I handed the box back to the host, and explained that I wasn't best pleased either, and the Twitten settled back tutting into its beds.
Off this morning to the smoke, and my old agency again. Nothing much happened, and working with Lana on some dull financial work about ISAs, which is managing to be simultaneously hard and boring. However I will probably be working there for a couple of weeks or so picking up a variety of jobs (one tomorrow about eyeballs), which my bank balance will welcome. Nice to catch up with the Gnome and a few others. Felt tired though today.
While waiting for a briefing I was able to take care of my PK bidness. A long note to Mike the On Track publisher, a meeting arranged for next week with Jeanne, my French Connection. Started reading Alison MacLeod's book The Wave Theory of Angels on the train. Really rather good so far and it starts with a quote from Rilke, which makes it instantly big and clever.
After locking myself out yesterday, today I left work with my dratted iPod on the desk I was using. Will still be there tomorrow? Home, and I'd left my kitchen door unlocked all day. That makes three things now. Enough already.
Dropping to sleep last night, when two students - clearly on something - took to kicking a recycling box along the Twitten (it boomed like a drum) and shouting incredibly loudly and laughing hysterically. After running up and down half a dozen times, and pushing each other into my tiny front garden, into my rosebush, I'd had enough and stalked out hastily dressed in socks and jeans and teeshirt - at which point there was some legging it. My new next door neighbour was out too, bless her. She and her husband haven't moved in properly yet, but asked me rather despairingly if it was always like this. I assured her that it wasn't always like this. The gallivanters had broken out of a party, and she talked to them excellently, and I handed the box back to the host, and explained that I wasn't best pleased either, and the Twitten settled back tutting into its beds.
Off this morning to the smoke, and my old agency again. Nothing much happened, and working with Lana on some dull financial work about ISAs, which is managing to be simultaneously hard and boring. However I will probably be working there for a couple of weeks or so picking up a variety of jobs (one tomorrow about eyeballs), which my bank balance will welcome. Nice to catch up with the Gnome and a few others. Felt tired though today.
While waiting for a briefing I was able to take care of my PK bidness. A long note to Mike the On Track publisher, a meeting arranged for next week with Jeanne, my French Connection. Started reading Alison MacLeod's book The Wave Theory of Angels on the train. Really rather good so far and it starts with a quote from Rilke, which makes it instantly big and clever.
After locking myself out yesterday, today I left work with my dratted iPod on the desk I was using. Will still be there tomorrow? Home, and I'd left my kitchen door unlocked all day. That makes three things now. Enough already.
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