under another sun

Irritated and out of sorts this morning. Up early and editing a press release for Sophie. Later a protracted conversation with her about a God awful brochure her client was proposing to use. Another call from the bastards pretending to be some kind of windows help desk. Worked on the book of course, and broke off to go to the gym, where I trundled on the cross trainer till my head got swimmy after about 25 minutes. A improvement that certainly improved my mood too. The Frogmore Papers arrived today containing my poem Cicada . Finally at the fourth attempt this poem reaches print unmolested, albeit cramped on a page with another poem. In the evening, after a chat with Lorraine, off to The Nightingale Theatre for a theatrical mingle. A small gathering, but interesting. Talking to a young Nigerian writer, an actor called Thor, a producer, and Kick a writer I'd met before, and Jules, who is trying to stage a play featuring Edith Sitwell. Additionally two guys working in the Nighti...

Sluggish and aching. The usual Feb/March antisocial desire to pull all my tentacles back into my shell like an ancient ammonite. Not a good day for work, my already patchy concentration disrupted by waiting for a man to measure up for carpets complicated by the doorbell not working, and various other things. Plus a bogus call from a 'Windows Help Desk' followed a minute later my windows unexpectedly crashing, which made me run various paranoid checks on the computer for malware. Just a coincidence, apparently. The carpet man arrived at five to five and was helped by a curious Brian to measure the stairs. Incidentally, Lorraine changed Brian's name at the Top Cats vets the other day. So he is officially Brian Kenny, step-brother to Calliope Kenny. Lorraine sucked into an Ofsted, so was late home and had to work on the sofa. Healthy fish and steamed veggies tonight. The Sheltering Sky  full of a compelling anxiety and tension. Contacted by someone in Brighton tonight about ...