under another sun

An old revolution Off to Lorraine's place to wait for a glazier to arrive. He was two hours late, despite repeated phone calls. However this was good as, sans computer, I made a series of strategic mindmaps plotting timelines for the CD/record label launch, house move, literary next steps, poetic next steps, business next steps, banking next steps and so on. Sam arrived later to play on his powerful gaming computer, and we had a nice chat. After the glass man came, was berated, and left, I legged off to the computer mending people. These say they can't fix my hard drive and that it is making a funny noise and you can't access the data, which is exactly what I told them a week ago. Also phoned by the agency who, unbelievably, cancelled the work for next week a second time, but offered me a day's work this week. Spent the afternoon feeling like I had lost a pound and found a sixpence, as the old folks used to say. Even more incredibly, on what is now the fifth decision, w...

Rolling up the trouserlegs Up at seven, and a spot of admin and payment chasing, and writing for a few hours before Toby surfaced, enticed by a cup of tea. As Toby groggily regrouped, I went off for a haircut, where I mentioned that my brother was over from Canada. The hairdresser quizzed me as to whether he had come over for the Pride parade in Brighton this weekend. Saying that he hadn't, made me feel curiously homophobic. So I had to add perhaps over-eagerly that I for one would certianly be enjoying the parade, which wasn't quite right either. A few nasty moments this morning having discovered I no longer had my manbag and, much more importantly, my camera. I called Zizzi and after describing its ink-stains, was told they had it. Returned home fully manbagged again, Toby showed me his excellent Argentinian photos. Some beautiful images. Then I went for a massage, which was free - having introduced Lorraine to my back crackers. I had a huge knot in my shoulders apparently,...

Cursing in the coffee shop Made more good progress on my poems, but am worried that I am turning into barking grouch. I was in costa coffee this afternoon, having my afternoon cup of jo (as Agent Cooper would have called it) and treating the place as my own private study, when in walked some teenage girls. These girls saw some other girls and the most over the top greeting ritual began, with them all flinging their arms around one another and giving vent to piercing screams of simulated joy and amazement. It is all harmless attention seeking of course, and being unable to hear myself think, I was forced to listen to them. It transpired that they hadn't seen each other since last week . Sadly the screaming forced me to involuntarily and quite loudly curse aloud, which is exactly how reputations for being mad start. You can innocently be sitting in a cafe working on your poetry manuscript, and seconds later be dragged off to a laughing academy. As for the poetry manuscript, called Th...