Sausages

Strange Kafkaesque dreams. Up and writing more poetry in a frenzy, having been gripped by a new theme that suddenly makes sense of the various fragments I have been writing over the last year, which weaves my dabbling in paleoanthropology, a recurring interest in the unreliability of memory and the tension between private self and public duty.

Wildly disinclined to do accounts, however. Instead I went to the gym, albeit in a rather wan and feeble manner. But pleased to have done so.

Met Matt in the Shakespeare's Head for a couple of cheeky beers and a long chat at tea time. Then joined by Lorraine, and she and I feasted on the Shakey's inimitable sausage and mash combo, which was rather delicious. An enjoyable evening, and home early too.