Sardined
Bit of a strange day. Woke up at five full of doom, better when I woke up again. Lorraine dropped me at the station, the train was a bit delayed but otherwise I simply read and enjoyed my Selected poems of Robert Lowell, which I have not done for years. Enjoying his poems much more these days, although his attitude to black people is nasty. It is all part of my attempt to refresh and increase my knowledge of US poetry. Have a great hunger for reading poems at present.
Scottish fisherman on the train, just as we approached Victoria carping loudly on his phone about Brexit fisheries negotiations and planning a protest.
Into work, and feeling oddly nervy this morning. I was given a job to do for the nice CD here. Found myself working with a good Spanish art director called Lidya on some concepts -- but also had to biff some work from my lovely French clients, which I don't like doing. A ten minute walk at lunchtime, which did wonders for my mood and perspective. I had a positive afternoon.
Reading Lowell on the way home again, sardined on the train. I was next to a man who had an appalling tic, head bowed, rubbing his face, eyes, forehead, scalp, and brushing his lap in an unbroken cycle. After 50 unrelenting minutes of this next to me I felt like screaming. Being compelled to do it yourself must be awful.
Walked home, and then started cooking, and spoke to mum very briefly. Lorraine sore throaty and not herself, we resorted to Masterchef and Cylons on the gold sofa before an early night.
Scottish fisherman on the train, just as we approached Victoria carping loudly on his phone about Brexit fisheries negotiations and planning a protest.
Into work, and feeling oddly nervy this morning. I was given a job to do for the nice CD here. Found myself working with a good Spanish art director called Lidya on some concepts -- but also had to biff some work from my lovely French clients, which I don't like doing. A ten minute walk at lunchtime, which did wonders for my mood and perspective. I had a positive afternoon.
Reading Lowell on the way home again, sardined on the train. I was next to a man who had an appalling tic, head bowed, rubbing his face, eyes, forehead, scalp, and brushing his lap in an unbroken cycle. After 50 unrelenting minutes of this next to me I felt like screaming. Being compelled to do it yourself must be awful.
Walked home, and then started cooking, and spoke to mum very briefly. Lorraine sore throaty and not herself, we resorted to Masterchef and Cylons on the gold sofa before an early night.
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