Heavy rain and distant thunder in Brighton at 6am this morning. Turns out that the lightening had struck something to do with the railway, and resulted in a snailing 2 hours 40 mins journey into work. Funny how bad journeys come in spates. Must be Mercury going retrograde or something astrological. Just checked... Mercury went retrograde yesterday. Just call me Gypsy Rose Kenny.
Eventually into work and some dullard had cloned yesterday: The Gnome & me working on the incontinence pitch: a swim at lunchtime and a tetchy mood.
Homeward got on the same Piccadilly line train and everything was fine. Spoke to Anton who was wondering if he should download Paradise Lost to listen to as an Audio Book. And Di who called this evening which was a nice surprise, she is doing okay during her on-going separation.
Started a book called Nadja by Andre Breton, which is "a frankly autobiographical book", and the "quintessential Surrealist romance" according to the blurb. Looks quite interesting. Loved this bit from it, which is a riposte to what Breton calls "psychological literature":
"I insist on knowing the names, on being interested in books left ajar, like doors: I will not go looking for keys.....I shall myself continue to live in my glass house where you can always see who comes to call; where everything hanging from the ceiling and on the walls stays where it is as if by magic, where I sleep nights in a glass bed, under glass sheets, where who I am will sooner or later appear etched by a diamond."
Made me think how I try to be as transparent as possible in this blog. I live in a glasshouse and scratch my life on the panes, I thought in one of my more pretentious moments on the crawling train this morning.
Home and had a bowl of miso soup, which is a cleansing new dieting idea. Except after I finished I also ate almonds and strawberries and yoghurt as I watched France get through to the World Cup Finals by beating Portugal, who had the gal (arf) to overcome England in their last game. Now France will meet Italy in the final on Sunday and football will be over.
Eventually into work and some dullard had cloned yesterday: The Gnome & me working on the incontinence pitch: a swim at lunchtime and a tetchy mood.
Homeward got on the same Piccadilly line train and everything was fine. Spoke to Anton who was wondering if he should download Paradise Lost to listen to as an Audio Book. And Di who called this evening which was a nice surprise, she is doing okay during her on-going separation.
Started a book called Nadja by Andre Breton, which is "a frankly autobiographical book", and the "quintessential Surrealist romance" according to the blurb. Looks quite interesting. Loved this bit from it, which is a riposte to what Breton calls "psychological literature":
"I insist on knowing the names, on being interested in books left ajar, like doors: I will not go looking for keys.....I shall myself continue to live in my glass house where you can always see who comes to call; where everything hanging from the ceiling and on the walls stays where it is as if by magic, where I sleep nights in a glass bed, under glass sheets, where who I am will sooner or later appear etched by a diamond."
Made me think how I try to be as transparent as possible in this blog. I live in a glasshouse and scratch my life on the panes, I thought in one of my more pretentious moments on the crawling train this morning.
Home and had a bowl of miso soup, which is a cleansing new dieting idea. Except after I finished I also ate almonds and strawberries and yoghurt as I watched France get through to the World Cup Finals by beating Portugal, who had the gal (arf) to overcome England in their last game. Now France will meet Italy in the final on Sunday and football will be over.
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