Felt sluggish and struggled to achieve anything. Lorraine working from home first thing, before heading off to school to start the penultimate week. I had an unappetising smorgasbord of frogs to dine on accountant/business stuff/ podcasting preparation/billing the agency for the last job/a Sainsbury's delivery/hoovering and chatting to two chirpy young ladies from Dusty Dolls Cleaning, who come around to give the house a once over. I squeezed in a couple of walks too, however.
No footie tonight, so Lorraine and I sat on the sofa, Lorraine playing her Nintendo, and me rereading A Year With Swollen Appendices, by Brian Eno while sipping a ginger beer. It is one of the few books that have been a lasting inspiration. And I channeled my inner Anton, and rebought it from Amazon in its 25 anniversary reissue in a hard cover, with gold and black ribbons, and the appendices printed on pink paper, and today read what he was doing in January 1995, which included recording an album with David Bowie. My 1995 was a tad less glamorous.