Dahling After a very few drinks with Anton the night before, I had a disproportionately terrible headache first thing this morning. However this soon passed off, thanks to ibuprofen balanced by Japanese green tea. It is important to balance drugs with something virtuous. Writing my skeleton story all day till 4 - breaking happily through the 30k words mark for the first draft, which is rapid progress indeed. My hero Skelton Yawngrave is the tops. I am having fantasies about a Skelton Yawngrave theme park and myself busy counting vast pots of cash. Leaving all the future royalties to a children's hospital like JM Barrie did with his Peter Pan story for Great Ormond Street seems a good idea. But I am getting ahead of myself... Erm. Maybe I need to finish it first. Then went for a swim. I'm just not liking this pool in Brighton very much. It is always very splashy and elbowy and crowded. When not being overtaken by people twenty years older than me, I get trapped behind others. It
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On the up Celebrated a great morning's work, by taking a two hour walk this afternoon, heading east across the city and clambered uphill till I reached the top of it. It is surprisingly high in the Hanover area, especially near the racecourse. Then ended up at Whitehawk, which I'd never walked through and probably won't bother again. Sort of reminded me a little of the Chalkhill estate in Wembley, where my old pal Carl lived, which is now mostly pulled down. Lots of the kids that went to my school lived there and it was quite a rough place. I wrote an unsuccessful SF novel in Carl's parents garage in Chalkhill, being bitten by fleas from the rug, and watching the odd flood of dog urine come down the wall, supplied by one of the several puppies from upstairs. Nobody can say I haven't paid my dues. Whitehawk has an edgy atmosphere about it, although in the sun it looked pleasant enough and there were few people about, apart from a man with a unpleasant dog. I walked p
Greys A transitory gloom today - I ran out of steam. And felt fed up, and most of the news was bad, such as hearing about my pal Paula's mum dying. However I was much cheered by Loraine coming around to discuss the right music for children to do alien dances to. After some thought I suggested Two Pages by 4hero and lent her the CD. It is perfect (for that sort of thing) and the second half of the CD is largely about aliens. It is quite funny reading the sticker on it with lots of people ten years ago from hip organs like Mixmag and so on saying it was the cat's miaow - and 4hero have certainly had their drum and basey spaced out avant garde moments. But having small children do alien dances to it in school surely must be the pinnacle. Wish I could be a fly on the wall. Went to a new chiropractor at lunchtime. A man, which is a new one for me. Felt distinctly better after being given a good cracking. Had, as you'd expect, a good conversation about skeletons. Afterwards it
Flying Started monday morning with a laugh, as I got some hilarious feedback from Joan on The Pamphlet, who felt like she had been held hostage by it, and not in a good way. People's feedback has been incredibly useful and diverse - but never neutral which I guess is a good sign. Otherwise a quiet day, full of satisfying work, followed by a bracing seaside walk. Talked a lot on the phone today, including to my old schoolfriend Shaila. She sent me some stories her son had written at school. The boy clearly has the makings of a really good writer. Below had a chat with Sophie today, and sent her some photos I took of Christof and Electra. Painting out the wires was fun.
Goaded by Spurs Met up with Sophie and family again this morning. Watched the kids on the bungee trampoline thing on the beach, and then we went again to the Mock Turtle for a light lunch and cups of tea. I have loved having Sophie and her family visit Brighton, and I've had a really cheery weekend with them. Then off to find a pub where Chelsea's cup final against Tottenham Hotspurs was being shown on a big screen. Found one around the corner from me, where Lorraine and I were able to get a seat. Not a good pub, and full of odd looking people and, Lorraine said, a distinct whiff of urine. This not as bad as the stink coming from the TV. Chelsea scored first and as I rightfully gave voice to my pleasure it turned out that the pub was a nest of Spurs fans, which explained their homely appearance. Many of them were looking at me with less favour than before. But then, drearily, Chelsea played appallingly and Spurs managed to get a goal, and eventually a winner at the end of extra
A beak where it wasn't wanted Met Sophie, Andros, and the bairns early this afternoon to lurk on the pier. Following tradition, Andros off for coffee and the rest of us onto the pier for several rides. A cold day. I went on the dodgems with Sophie and the kids. Sophie zooming around looking curiously traumatised by it. Christof and I went on my favourite Horror Hotel ghost ride, which was excellent, as they have made a few improvements. Enjoyed the cheesy horror tableaux that you trundle past, and was surprised by the bits of cloth that pleasingly trail over your face in the dark. Lorraine went on a ghastly whirling thing with Electra, and even managed to hold up her hands in the approved manner. After a couple of hours of this sort of thing, and watching the kids on even worse rides, we made off. Far more horrifying than the ghost train was a feathered devotee of Hitchcock pacing along the roofing eyeing us, and just as I pointed out its comical behaviour to kids, we were suddenly
Juno Started working on the Pamphlet early in the morning. Worked all day certain of my big and cleverness, till I had a swim in the afternoon. Need to do more swimming as I was getting depressed that I was now so porcine that my clothes no longer fit me. Discovered however, that in fact one of my sweaters had shrunk in the wash, which made me feel slightly better. Saw Lorraine tonight, and we went off to see a film called Juno , which is one of those films you don't expect much of, but is in fact a little gem. What a great script. It deals with a sixteen year old girl getting pregnant, and offering her baby for adoption. Thank goodness, loads of tired cliches are avoided. For example, the girl's parents are supportive, the girl knows her own mind and is resilient. It really is quite unexpectedly heartwarming.
Full of moon Awake early in Strand on the Green with my brain a hive of ideas. Dressed, I decided to make an early break back to the seagulls. Coat on, I discovered that I had lost my phone. Galling visions of waiting around for the restaurant to open... Pacing about listening to Matt conducing lengthy ablutions then I popped out to First Matie's place and, mercifully she had it. Then a lift from Matty to Turnham Green, then home against the tide of commuters, bumping into Reuben at Victoria. Home and to work. Saw Lorraine briefly in the afternoon, as she is on half term. Otherwise I worked like a madman possessed today till 10:30pm with a new and easily executed idea (codename: The Pamphlet) which is either certifiable or utterly brilliant. Not decided yet. Was half hoping to see the eclipse of the full moon, but after a week or so of crystal clear nights there was an annoying blanket of cloud cover. I expect astronomers up and down the country were grinding their teeth, and stamp
Smirking in the smoke Up to London, to get my people fix. First stop to see Mum and Mase and collect the two sample spreads Mum has done for the children's book project, codenamed missing . She also showed me four of her paintings newly mounted and framed. They looked splendid. Then the three of us off to Stanmore to have a bite of lunch and a good chat in a pub called the Man in the Moon . Then back to pick up my portfolio and, sipping a quick cup of tea, I noticed an old cassette of music that mum had compiled which she had labelled Jazz (dismal), which made me smile somewhat, Then zoomed off to Glamoursmith to meet the French Bloke in the Riverside studios. Waiting for him, I finished a short book by Ivan Ward in the Ideas in Psychoanalysis series called Phobia . Very interesting for someone like myself, who collects phobias like other people do stamps. Funnily enough he described someone walking across Hungerford Bridge feeling phobic, something I myself have done on several
Bodiam Castle A beautiful day out at Bodiam Castle today with Lorraine. Decided to go there as I am at a point in my skeleton's story where a bit of castle reference would come in handy. L drove (and I navigated skilfully) across winding country lanes. The castle was almost artificially perfect, like a fairytale from a distance. Spent some time wandering about in the castle, I began to become a bit obsessed with how the bright winter sunlight fell through its windows. L and I wandered about, squeezing up spiral staircases and mooching on the ramparts looking down at the greenish moat and the surrounding fields, with L falling into conversation with children as they squeezing through holes in the walls or waved plastic swords about. I was reminded of a poem I wrote after visiting Kenilworth Castle , near Warwick University where I was studying. The poem recorded the fantastically profound observation that castles, built to last, fall down - and was published in Other Poetry about 2
This is England Stayed at Lorraine's last night, and was woken by a cat placing its paw on my forearm. Disorientated, I opened my eyes in the middle of a dream, and saw a face about six inches from mine, and in the half-light I mistook it for a small and intense child. This, for some reason, scared the bejasus out of me. I haven't been as alarmed by a cat since Paddy the Ghost Cat pattered into my bedroom. Did a morning's work as God's own copywriter for the religious charity I'd been doing a bit for through my old agency. Thanks to feline intervention I found I was up exceedingly early so also got quite a bit done on my Skeleton story, have written over 20,000 words of it now, which is er, cracking along. Another swim, the fourth of the week, left me feeling pretty shattered and still aghast at how fat and out of condition I am. Rented a movie about skinheads in the 80s called This is England which I thought was a really good, excellently acted, a great script, an
Getting a grip Taking care of bidness today, admin stuff, plus I wrote and sent off a speculative piece about the woodslick, with photos. Also sent a package of essays, stories and poems to the guys in Guernsey - plus made some progress on my Skeletons story. Also another swim. Still haven't got my all my pep back post virus, but am managing to do fairly sedate half an hour in the pool with few ill effects, but I am child-scaringly overweight at the moment. Saw Anton and Martin for a cheeky beer in the evening in a pub called the Robin Hood, sitting at an old Masonic table, judging by the carving and iconography. The Robin Hood apparently gives all its profits to charity, which makes it unusual in itself. Martin stressed by builders. Anton told us about some great news Anna's had. And later, eyeing the self employed Martin and the freelance me, moaning about how he was the only salary slave around. Anton and I then walked uphill and home, talking about The Stranglers Black and
Bob and the river Little deathless prose and poetry produced today, although I had a fruitful chat with a magazine publisher Mex had kindly put me in touch with. Went into town late this afternoon to meet up with Bob. Had a jolly evening discussing among other things the imagined attractiveness to ladies of the more mature gentlemen (such as ourselves) and - at some length - religion. During the course of this we went for a walk along the Thames, which was looking particularly beautiful and popped into a Doggets where I played several games of pool with the old Mad dog, poking the butts of our cues into the elbows of disgruntled drinkers. Then across the river to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, where we sat in the small dark bar near an open fire. This is a fine pub and one of my all time favourites and with its dark wood panels and old paintings a place for confidential lurking. Then to The Temple Bar for a curry before zooming home listening to an audiobook. Below two views of the river.
The Monday manatee I love Mondays. Writing this morning by 8:30 and got in four good uniterrupted hours of work on my skeleton stuff before I took a break to eat fried egg sandwiches. Not normal PK fare but damn fine nevertheless. I am now on a bread embargo as, having baked so much of it lately, I am now the exact size and weight of a manatee. Slipped out into the unseasonally lovely weather and went for a nose about in the eel grass in the swimming pool. Swim not quite as relaxing as it should have been due to a splashy crawler repeatedly bumping into me as I slogged up and down. The more he barged me, the more increasingly violent my revenge fantasies became. Once I'd left the pool all this was forgotten and I felt great after swimming as usual. Making some promising and furthermore interesting connections at the moment re my freelance stuff. Also a nice note from the guys at Written magazine in Guernsey, looks like they will be using more of my stuff, which is pleasing. A prod
Football and a dolphin derby Lazy carefree Sunday with Lorraine, wandered about in Brighton pausing to eat brunch by the sea, as it was a beautifully sunny day. Then onto the pier, which was crowded, where I became briefly transfixed by the Dolphin Derby and took a few photos of it. Particularly liking the bizarre fish hanging down from the roof. Then back dawdling through the lanes, just mooching about and chatting amiably, and having coffee outside in the sun. Later we went to the Eddy to watch football: Chelsea vs the odious Liverpool. Amazingly Lorraine doesn't mind watching football, which makes her a bit of a geezer bird. As usual when I sit down to watch a Chelsea game the forces of wrongness prevail, and Chelsea were lucky to escape with a dire nil-nil draw. Watching the Dolphin Derby was infinitely more entertaining. A bite of chinese grub before Lorraine went home, and I spent the evening watching TV and feeling generally exceedingly cheery. Especially when watching Man U
Being Peter Kenny: 7 great things about it Was tagged by splendid fellow blogger Lucy WithaY who is sounding V positive these days. Her idea is to create a meme, and write 7 positive things about your life down. So here goes... Actually I could have done about twenty. 1 family and friends - my family are also my friends, and many of my friends are like family. There are literally dozens of people I love. To disagree with Sartre, for me hell is not other people - hell is isolation. 2 creativity - frankly my creativity makes me big and clever. When not working as a creative for a living (writing junk mail, radio and TV adverts, tee-shirts, posters, websites etc.) I have acted in theatres, in one obscure movie, performed and written poems, prose, plays, taken photos, drawn, painted, played guitar, and blogged. It enriches my life because it makes the world my source material, not something to drift through. Additionally it helps me appreciate other people's art and expression. When
Words words and a cheeky cheque A day built of words. A splendid one too, feeling positive and true to myself. Had an walk first thing in the morning, and enjoyed looking at the sea. As I did so, I listened to podcast R3 interviews with Martin Amis (discussing why he is picking fights with Islam, and sounding like someone who was once badly bullied) and J.G. Ballard (introduced as, in the interviewer's opinion, the finest contemporary English novelist). This kind of thing always makes me irritable. He is the best person at being the J.G. Ballard, and writes the best J.G. Ballard books imaginable. Why do we always have this urge to turn everything into some kind of vacuous top of the pops list? Writing the skeleton stuff again. I now have over 10,000 words of the first draft and I think it is already by some stretch the most entertaining thing I have ever done, so I am feeling very positive about this. Oddly, the writing of it is almost effortless. My only constraint in getting it d
The pig's last oink A morning full of skeletons. A sluggish head today though, and I got quickly stuck. Popped out instead to get a haircut (and an interesting discussion about life as a barber and er, skeltons) and, after having a more profitable afternoon, decided to leave early for London where I was to meet the Dell Posse. I arrived very early and enjoyed walking about and relishing London's bustle, having been cooped up bashing away on my keyboard. Chinatown looked particularly nice, decorated for New Year. I lurked about taking photos for some time. Then I made my way to the Crown and Two Chairmen in Soho where I began to read a newish collection of poetry by Esther Morgan called The Silence Living in Houses while sipping a beer. She quotes Alice Monroe's short story The Office which I've not read: "So a house is not the same for a woman. She is not someone who walks into the house, to make use of it and will walk out again. She is the house; there is no sepa
Goodnight Seattle Found myself googling snake skeletons and bat faces today for my skeleton story. Snakes can have hundreds of ribs and more vertibrae than you can shake a stick at. And bats are plain weird. To be able to write for six straight hours uninterrupted about bat faces and skeletons is wonderful - if a little eccentric. Later I took to baking bread and making a large pie. Then talked to Louise for the first time in ages, and hearing her baby boy Thomas gurgling in the background. They are both doing well and I will visit them soon. On a curiously sad note, finally watched the last episode of the final Frasier series. These characters really speak to me, and as someone said in the DVD extras, the show never talked down to its audience. It was consistently intelligent, and often brilliantly written - and always excellently acted. But most of all you invested emotionally in the characters, and I identify increasingly with Frasier himself these days. I often get the feeling of s
No country for old men Off with Lorraine to see No country for old men. A good choice for a dreary Sunday afternoon. It had very good reviews, and of course its title quotes the first line of Sailing to Byzantium by the guv'nor W.B. Yeats, which incidentally is a damn fine poem. No country for old men is undoubtedly a damn fine film too. The title reflects the fact that violence is killing lots of people in the film, but also the Tommy Lee Jones's Sheriff's increasing sense of not belonging to the world he inhabits. It is quite gory in parts, but there is something absolutely hypnotic in the way psychopathic hitman Anton Chigurh, (Javier Bardem) never deviates from his course of killing. He is an unstoppable force for death, and violence and his quarry - a man who, happening to stumple over the scene of a massive drug deal gone wrong, takes a bag of cash and makes off with it - is doomed from the start. Tommy Lee Jones who plays the world-weary Sherrif is excellent too, a