under another sun

A pleasant day in which I worked on my new poem did a few bits of admin (including emailing the people who'd offered me work on Monday) and took myself for a long early afternoon moochabout in town, browsing happily in secondhand bookshops and popping into Waterstones where I bought a book by Umberto Eco and Jean-Claude Carrière, called ' This is not the end of the book; ' and a collection of essays called  Literature and Evil by George Bataille. After a walk by the sea I found myself in Kemptown where I stopped at a little 'cafe bistro' called Figaro's in a sidestreet. Here I ordered tea, and the man balked as if I had requested a unicorn, for it was an Italian place priding itself on its coffee. I was presented with a cup with a dirty saucer with the teabag floating in the milky water, and minutes later the worst all-day breakfast I've had this century, complete with a noxious ratburger. Thinking about it even now makes me want to retch. The charms of t...

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man Shakespeare, King John, Act3 scene 4 God I'm bored. Days alone typing wads of copy, and having no energy at all due to stupid prostatitis, antibiotic horse pills etc. I loathe myself when I'm like this. And when I'm not feeling bored, I am feeling frustrated with being so run down that I can't go to the gym. Getting fatter by the hour. First lot of erection copy sent off this morning. Spent the rest of the day getting my grey matter around the next tranche of ailments. Spoke on the phone to Lorraine and my mum. Explained in some detail to both how bored I was. There was an hour when I wasn't bored. I broke off for a walk down to a sea. It was smooth. Then I bought an egg cup. And returned home to talk to my kitten. I installed the new magnetic catflap, which only involved 2-3 bouts of swearing. Calliope hates it. In the evening prepared an entry for the Poetry Business Competition - for...