Drippy face

Back to work for Lorraine, and for me the start of two weeks up in Tavistock Square. A horrid night of not sleeping, awful throat and coughing. Felt like death warmed over on the train, where I started listening to my new audiobook Sapiens by Yuval Noah Harari.

Pausing to score some strepsils, I went into work to discover I’d been teamed up with my old pal Keith. Good to see him, and a relief to know I’ll be working with someone I’ve worked with so often before. He was making me laugh with a story of pursading his partner to let him on a cable car, and then once aboard remembering that he is terrified of them, and clinging to the floor on all fours, and then having to be restrained from leaping out onto a treetop to escape. Then forcing his partner to walk down the mountain afterwards.  The work we’re asked to do is a thorny brief with not much elbow room, but we have time to work it all out. Keith worrying at his ear, which was painful and slightly deaf, and me having lost my voice. A right pair.

A turn around Tavistock Square at lunch, looked at Virginia Woolf’s dripping face and then back to it, eating a sensible salad at my desk.

Managed to get through work, and due to a cock up on the trains actually arrived back in Brighton early (a much delayed earlier train became a fast one).  Lorraine picked me up from the station tonight. I’d missed her.

In other news Richard’s blog, unerringly readable and interesting, has a couple of my poems on it today.

Home with Lorraine, hasty food making then unashamedly watched more of Orange is the new Black.

Visiting the statue of Virginia Woolf again today. Finding comfort in her drippy face.