under another sun

The cat's miaow Beginning another week freelancing at my old agency. Feeling better adjusted psychologically to it this week. Sloped off at lunch with the French Bloke who is now working for the agency next door. We sat in a quiet Riverside studios eating a delicate thali and shooting the breeze over a glass of wine. He was very enthusiastic about the redesign of his house, and drew his plans in some detail in one of my notebooks. He is also really enjoying his new job, so all is well. Spoke to Mum for a bit at lunch time too, and got a nice email from Joan which contained the picture, below, of the cats and a dogs of Deviation Road living in perfect harmony. Joan was urging me to get a cat. It would have to be one from a sanctuary that needed re-homing. In fact, cats have been playing on my mind, especially as I have been writing letters about taking care of abandoned cats in the last few working days. Once things settle down for a bit, I might get one. Especially as I'm worki

Old haunts, new friends Into London today. As the train drew into Victoria Mum phoned to talk about an operation she is going to have shortly. Difficult to talk in the station with loudspeakers barking information about trains. Soon after, I met up with Lakshmi who was clutching a book of London walks, and after tubing it, we vaguely followed its directions into Chiswick, which of course is an old haunt of mine. We went to Hogarth House and the Italianate Chiswick House, enjoyed the Hogarth prints. And although I'd been in Chiswick House grounds many times, I'd never actually been inside Chiswick House. I took some photos of weathered statues that had been in the garden and were now inside as Lakshmi and I wandered about with the audio guides pressed to our ears. The statues creeped Lakshmi out a bit, and I thought their corroded faces were rather magnificent and best not encountered in a dark Twitten. We then walked off to Strand on the Green and met up with Matty, Kate, Graem

In praise of beer These lines caught my eye in Hogarth House - at the bottom of the Beer Street print - by the Rev James Townley. Bah to the French and their depraved water! Beer, happy Produce of our Isle Can sinewy Strength impart, And wearied with Fatigue and Toil Can cheer each manly Heart. Labour and Art upheld by Thee Successfully advance, We quaff Thy balmy Juice with Glee And Water leave to France. Genius of Health, thy grateful Taste Rivals the Cup of Jove, And warms each English generous Breast With Liberty and Love!

Cat plague Hitomi is coming to London next week on business, and I got a note today asking me if I will meet her for breakfast. Hitomi is angelic. She met me at Narita airport and guided me through Tokyo into my seat the bullet train. Be good to see her in blighty. A day spent doing housework - and sleeping. Saw Lorraine briefly this evening, while her parents were at a show. Mostly though, I was plagued by a feline confidence trickster. It snuck into my house three times, and roamed about as if it owned the place, even scampering up the stairs to check out my bath before I could shoo it out. It managed to climb onto the ledge and peer at me pleadingly while I was in the kitchen. Then it took up residence in my back garden in the rain and mewed outside my door pitifully. After many hours of this, I was completely taken in and was considering giving it some tuna, and calling it Chaplin, because it looked so pathetic, when I heard someone calling a cat, and it promptly melted away. Below

Tea with a smile Friday took a lot of time coming, and was very welcome when it did. Finished the Bartimaeus Trilogy on the train without further endangering myself. Bought a cup of tea as I often do from the man who pushes the buffet trolley on the train, I think his name is Howard. He is a shining example of life being what you make it. He is generally cheerful and usually has a fragment of gentle of banter with people he is serving. Today I asked him for a nice cup of tea, and he said they were all nice from his trolley, and then he tried and failed, as he always does, to upsell me to some sort of croissant to go with it. It's something and nothing. But he passes through the train, bringing a smile to dozens of people during the day - I don't suppose he gets paid much for his job, but I think he is spiritually well in credit. Raining heavily at lunchtime in Glamoursmith, hurried off to buy a small and slimline salmon and cucumber sandwich, manifesting iron will by avoiding

A punchable savior Just before I woke up, I had a nightmare that I was back at my agency full time. I'm having to contend with Groundhog Day feelings about being there. But once I just deal with it for what it is: an excellent bit of freelance, and a chance to see some old friends, it is actually pretty enjoyable. On the train listening to the final volume of the Bartimaeus Trilogy by Jonathan Stroud. An Anton recommendation, a good fantasy, with excellent writing - with the last book being by far the best plotted in my opinion. However it almost killed me: run over by a bus outside Victoria station while listening to my headphones. An employee of the bus company was roaring Bus! at me. I was looking at him vaguely to my left wondering why he was shouting, as the bus loomed on my right. Happily I stopped shortly before squashing commenced. I sincerely thanked him, but then he began shaking his head and enlarging on what an idiot I was, and pretty soon I felt like punching my savio

Among angels Up to London again, went for a wander around at lunchtime, finding myself in the Garage Art Gallery. Despite working 10 minutes away from it in the past, I'd never been into it. This week there was an exhibition by a guy called Sidney Handel who in 2004 and at the age of 81 joined an art class. He was standing in the little gallery, amid the remnants of peanuts and wine of what I assumed to be his first show, and surrounded by colourful pictures. I found this rather heartening. Hurried off to take some photos in the graveyard, and enjoyed being among the Victorian angels again. Watched the documentary about the making of Wings of Desire on the DVD, where Wim Wenders makes the link between his film and Rilke's poems. Something very poetic about the graveyard, with its leaning headstones and ornate statuary. Some of the figures almost look as if they could blink open their eyes, and turn their heads. After work over, I went to the pub with Robbie, The Gnome - and Mar

The grump within Up unspeakably early to get into London to get an early start at the agency. Grumped onto the train, noting that my recent sense of humour bypass is holding. Falling into old survival patterns: meditation tracks, and then to Mark Kermode and Simon Mayo podcast from BBC radio 5. I always really enjoy their show, and pleased to hear Kermode rating The Orphanage . One I am definitely going to see, although I suspect I will be ululating with horror, and apparently crying like a big girl at the end. Even the trailer gives me chills. Worked all day through lunch on stuff for financial clients with Bee and Lana, who got engaged at the weekend. I was the soul of amenability despite the grump within. Then shot out like a rabbit from a ferrety warren at five thirty. Listening to an audiobook, and crazily fiddling with the stupid game on my phone. I can't believe how long I lived like this. Experiencing acute and violent heartburn at the moment, not something I get too much.

Oskar in a skeleton shirt Low profile day again today, having felt fairly subdued over this holiday for no good reason at all. However, having gone into an excellent chocolate store in Lewes the other day, I went up the hill to visit Anton and Anna and take some little Easter baskets plus some little chocolate animals (green frogs, white mice and brown cats and dogs) to Klaudia and Oskar. Chatted with Anna lots, as some snow fell outside. Anton not well, however, and lying on the sofa stricken with self-diagnosed shingles. Anna said that she'd looked it up on the Internet and it had advised taking paracetamol and to shut up, which we laughed at, Anton rather less so. They are flying off to Australia next weekend for Christianne's wedding, so it would be much better if it wasn't shingles. Read a couple of stories to Klaudia, one of which I liked. It was called Selfish Sophie about a girl who wasn't very good at sharing, and was following the rule I've learned recentl

All's well that ends in the Eddy Grey damp cold weather. Started the day in a grey damp cold mood too, feeling decidedly out of sorts in many ways. Retreated to working on poems but simply breaking them the more effort I put into them. Gave up in disgust. Waiting for the wet weather to abate so that I could paint over the fresh graffiti on my green fence. Much solidarity in the Twitten, though, chatted to some of my neighbours further along as I was painting it out in the evening. There is now talk of a CCTV camera which may be a deterrent of some sort. However cheered up progressively as the day went on. Lorraine and I went for a long walk and talk along the seafront, which made me feel much better. Then we had a cheeky late lunch in a tiny and delightful tapas place opposite the Corn Exchange. A beany tapas was absolutely ace. Like Guernsey bean jar but curiously thick and full of garlic, and we had some really nice house red wine. I want to produce the ultimate Guernsey bean jar

The scene of the great beer war A short trip to Lewes today with Lorraine. Pretty cold weather, with ice in the air. Wandered about in town, and into a few good bookshops. Ended up having a meal and a couple of good beers in the Lewes Arms which is a splendid pub and cultural hub. In recent years there was lots of news about it when local beer Harveys (brewed in Lewes and quaffed appreciatively by me and a zillion others in Brighton and elsewhere) was no longer served there due to the brewery Greene King's insistance. Read wikipedia on the Lewes Arms controversy and how the power of the locals beat the corporate brewers. Also L and I laughing at posters: THE SPECTACULAR "ENCIERRO DOS (Los?)ANIMALES PANTAMIMOS" (RUNNING OF THE PANTOMIME ANIMALS) WILL TAKE PLACE AT THE LEWES ARMS ON EASTER SUNDAY AT 3:00PM. This seems to involve people dressing up in pantomime costumes and charging about throught the town. Read more about that here . Also chatted to Matty, as it seemed r

Short fuse Another day in my old agency - speeding about working on scraps of urgent stuff, with two art directors I'd never been partnered with before: Bee and Lana. Feeling slightly out of control with lots to do. Lots of stress about the place - but I managed to maintain a reasonably good equilibrium. Train draggy and late getting home. Home to rejections for my pamphlet project: one company has restricted its list to books of quotations, and the other already has a publication lined up specifically for Valentine's day. Good to get fast feedback though, and can send them off again as soon as I get a minute. The evening, however, much better. I met up with new literary pal Alison and went to a short story event in the Komedia appropriately called (considering the day I'd had) Short Fuse. Six stories, and all but one read by the writer. A high standard and a wide variety of material. Enjoying the unusual ideas that popped up, such as reading Homer to your cat. And a brilli

Gallivanting at midnight Dropping to sleep last night, when two students - clearly on something - took to kicking a recycling box along the Twitten (it boomed like a drum) and shouting incredibly loudly and laughing hysterically. After running up and down half a dozen times, and pushing each other into my tiny front garden, into my rosebush, I'd had enough and stalked out hastily dressed in socks and jeans and teeshirt - at which point there was some legging it. My new next door neighbour was out too, bless her. She and her husband haven't moved in properly yet, but asked me rather despairingly if it was always like this. I assured her that it wasn't always like this. The gallivanters had broken out of a party, and she talked to them excellently, and I handed the box back to the host, and explained that I wasn't best pleased either, and the Twitten settled back tutting into its beds. Off this morning to the smoke, and my old agency again. Nothing much happened, and w

A bit of a write off The wrong side of the bed this morning; antsy and couldn't settle. Tried instead to do practical things, which all seemed to backfire, such as attempting to log onto the website of Writers' & Artists' Yearbook. Access to the site comes free with the yearbook, and you type in the code that comes with the book. This simply crashed, and has done for two days. Sent an email to enquiries at A and C Black (listed in the yearbook) which was bounced. Phoned the company and got nowhere. Useless and annoying wankers. Gloom snowballed somewhat with inability to work. Ended up going for a walk by the sea, trying to decide on reasons not to leave clothes in a pile. Main reason: the water looked cold. After walking for two hours I felt a bit more cheery though. Home and spoke to Mike at On Track for some time about Brighton and his plans and schemes. Also confirmed I will be up to the smoke again tomorrow to work with my old agency again. For some reason had the

A sustainable life Productive Monday. Up early, and did a telephone interview at 10, where I spoke to Brighton's splendidly-named sustainable development guru Thurstan Crockett, about the forthcoming festival and what's going on in Brighton. Pleased to learn that Brighton won Forum for the Future award last year for its sustainability initiatives. I cleverly (but somewhat tangentially) steered the conversation onto gulls, and explained my theory that there were two tribes in Brighton: The People and The Gulls. He wanted to go on record that gulls were much maligned. Hmm. I thought. Tell that to the one that got its thieving beak into Electra's noodles the other week. As Thurstan had worked as a journalist it made the interview very easy and I'd blasted the article out by noon. Really interesting guy. Then focused on my Pamphlet project, now called i love you. I have reworked it, completed the proposal and other bits and there was nothing more to do with it other than se

A pizza the action Beavering today writing up the interview I did yesterday, and played at journalism. Mike at On Track also called to ask me to do another interview, which I have set up for Monday morning, and said they were going to use a little speculative piece I'd sent them about the woodslick. My old agency also called offering a couple of weeks work, so all in all a good day from that perspective - but I am tantalizingly close to finishing off a couple of my projects, so I have mixed feelings about taking time out now. But naturally I will do the work to buy myself a bit more writing time. Spoke to Toby, who is off to Canada first thing tomorrow. Sorry that I only got to see him once, but I am fairly sure we'll see each other again shortly. Also briefly spoke to mum as they were busy gloating over the hits to mum's websites. Very pleased it was Friday. What I find unreasonable, however, is having worked 5 days this week, how few people are prepared to offer me any sy

Write club Busy day. Up fairly early and working on project pamphlet (now reframing and transforming) then girding my loins to schlep off to London to interview Andrew Comben the new Chief Executive of the Brighton Festival. Having not done an interview for a bit, I thought I'd take my mp3 recorder as a back up. However the dratted thing decided to freeze up when I tested it on the train, which was galling and made me want to stamp on it. Had to rely on good old fashioned scribbling. More about all that in the daywork blog. Feeling somewhat coldy today, but coffee kept me going. In the evening I took myself off to something called The Write Club (alluding to Fight Club) where people are supposed to have arguments about literature. Instead I ended up having a really good time and chatting with four (count 'em) published novelists and others who were nice too. One woman had published a "chick lit" novel (which sounded rather dark when she read a piece from it) and I fo

Meeting Toby in town Into my old agency to finish working on the pitch. Typically in the middle of a streaming cold which improved as the day wore on. Usual last minute stuff, and I left the Gnome at the end of the day facing hours of seeing things through the studio. Nice to chat to people there, but doubly nice to be able to walk away. Off then into town to meet Toby, who is in the country for a week. He'd been in Wales seeing chums, and lurking with Mum and Mase. I met him outside the Apogee off Leicester Square. He was wearing a very nice biscuit coloured duffel coat, which I coveted somewhat. It was bought in South America, and has a Paddington Bearish air. We slid off to The Salisbury pub, and sat in the back room which has mirrored walls, and drank beers, and did lots of talking and general family gossip and discussing things like the nature of love. Then off to a pizza restaurant for a bit of a feed. Great to go see Toby lad, makes me feel sad we can't just do that more

This isn't Kansas Poor sleep last night. Woke up in the middle of the night after dreaming about a tsunami. I often dream about tsunamis, and when I'm not dreaming about those, it's twisters. This can only be explained by having former lives in Krakatoa, and Kansas. And before that I was Cleopatra, but that's another story. Into work and locked away for most of the day with the Gnome,which almost made me feel as if I'd never left. Slogging on a pitch together, going through the usual gamut of emotions and drinking lots of coffee. A cold starting in the middle of the day, which was annoying and made it hard to think at times but it all turned out okay in the end. Champing at the bit to get on with all my other bits and pieces. But nice to see some people. Saw Al briefly, who is leaving to have her second baby soon. Home late, and after eating a cheese and onion sandwiches and chatting to Toby on the phone, headed for bed. I will be seeing the Tobster tomorrow after w

Current events Howling wind and rain last night. People being bullied by a storm down the hill to the station, from where trains crawled at a weather-restricted 50 mph. I was one of them, having to get to my old agency for an early start. Nasty to be squeezing onto the tube again, and once at the agency I sat about for an hour or so waiting to everyone else to arrive. Typical. Have been drafted in to work on a healthcare pitch. Nice to catch up with people. I hung out with Mark a bit at lunch, looking on his computer at virtual tours of houses with stunning views in New Zealand, where he is moving in a couple of weeks. Bumped into the French Bloke too en passant . But mostly spent the day locked away with The Gnome, who was in good spirits, and I enjoyed my day. My essay How I stopped being a genius , and poem Thought Daughter were accepted by Written magazine in Guernsey, which makes me feel cheery. Also asked to quote for another writing job today, so all is looking well, and have

Below a dark sky in Brighton.

An English afternoon in March Up this morning to go for a walk with Anton. First time we'd gone for a walk together since October - mainly due to ghastly virus I had over Christmas. Currently Anton is offensively skinny, due to his so-called Kamikaze diet. For the last week he has not really eaten, and endured headaches and general enervation. He was impeccably prepared for our walk, of course, with the right clothes and equipment. He had also taken with him about 5000 calories worth of food: slow cooked Boston baked beans, which were contained in a large vacuum flask, a large and delicious pork pie from a specialist pork pie and sausage butcher, and a small snappy container full of a generous helping of Piccalilli sauce. Not to mention a big bag of mixed nuts. I made do with some sandwiches from M&S. Anton thoughtfully encouraged me to eat some of his pie, as increasing other people's weight around you is an important part of successful slimming. A really nice four and a h

Barding it in Brighton Enjoyable night at a Poetry South event down at the Joogleberry Playhouse. A plentiful and attentive audience and several good poems. Heading the bill was a poet called Stephanie Norgate reading from her new book from Bloodaxe, which - from what I could tell on a first listen - has some really good moments. There was a short open-mic section and, despite being late, I blagged a spot. I read An Adumbration of the Light Age , for the first time in public, and was pleased with the response it got. Amazed at how nervous I felt beforehand, given that in a former life I have given poetry readings (without exaggeration) about a thousand times. The poetry was being held above a rather groovy gig in the basement below. This made it a little harder to concentrate for people later on in the bill, especially when the evening was wrapped up by an unaccompanied folk singer, who had to resort to the traditional finger in the ear to keep in key. Look forward to getting more invo

A turbulent twitten Decided to strip and sand my front door and repaint it, as the varnish was peeling and the brown of the wood looks horrid with the blue and white colour scheme of my house. How long can stripping and sanding a door take? Untold hours. It did give me time to stand in the sun and talk to the neighbours, who were mostly talking about graffiti. The white walls of the Twitten have been targeted every night by the same person, judging by his dire tags. What is heartening is that the denizens of the twitten simply paint it out within hours. Eventually the boy will get tired of it. Made me think of The Tipping Point by Malcom Gladwell where there is an example of graffiti in the New York subway system. A policy of zero tolerance was adopted for it, and the book argues that this precipitated a change in behaviour, resulting in a significant drop in all crime on the subway. Tonight there was the detritus from a stolen purse: the twitten looks so idyllic and is such a nice p

Long-Legged Fly Wrote thousands of words of my Skelton Yawngrave book. Ate homemade chicken soup and leftover apple pie with custard. Ventured into the Twitten with a tin of white paint and painted over last night's nearby graffiti. A few calls, arranging to interview the MD of the Brighton Festival next week, for On Track magazine. Also a long and charming conversation with a French contact Mas put me in touch with, which should be another income stream. Also some fairly abusive texts from Carl and Mad dog drinking somewhere up North. Carl insisting on comparing me to Stephen Fry for reasons best known to himself. But mainly it was about sitting quietly thinking and writing and drinking coffee. Put me in mind, rather grandly, of one of my all time favourite poems: W.B. Yeats Long-legged fly . And here it is for your delectation. That civilisation may not sink, Its great battle lost, Quiet the dog, tether the pony To a distant post; Our master Caesar is in the tent Where the maps a

The colour of Sunday Up at early and painted my green fence green. This was to cover some numpty tagger's purple addition. Needed a painting anyway, and it felt a virtuous way to start a Sunday. Finished painting and stepped back to admire my handiwork. Cue old testament style clouds gathering overhead and I paused then to read the tin which said do not use if the weather is wet. Visions of the fence running onto the white wall beneath like green mascara, and passersby and neighbours gathering to point and laugh. Mercifully the rain held off. Then painted the inside of my front door white. I will paint the outside blue shortly. Long chat with Mum, discussing plans and wheezes on our book project, she had also received the flowers I'd sent her too. Spent the afternoon pottering about listening to the audiobook (a mere two hours) of 84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff. Likeable stuff, and of course transatlantic dialogue quite resonant for me. Made time for Bianca my white guit

Car crimes Lorraine took me shopping to a hardware store in her car today. We paused first at the garage and added air to tyres, L changed her oil and bought petrol. After scoring paint tins we drove to Brighton Marina to get in the queue for the car wash. It was after being in this queue for about twenty minutes the car remembered it was a diesel car and quickly died. Luckily we were next to a carpark and so it could pushed to safety. Only one thing for it: eat moules and frites and drink beer, after which L marginally less tetchy when I mentioned she'd murdered Bexy (the name of her car). Then a man came with a Rod Steward circa 1972 haircut and winched up the dead car to the back of his lorry. We walked back, me carrying my paint tins, along the seafront for half an hour. L punched me in a businesslike manner after I mentioned that there was nothing like a lift to the hardware store. A beautiful sunset though and hundreds of seagulls decorating the sky. Home, and loafed on my go