under another sun

Sleepy and unfocused as the lively weekend took its toll. I went to London today for a general mooch around and to meet Mario Petrucci, who is an old friend who has become a fairly famous poet. I waited some time for him at Baker Street station, where I was early and he very delayed by appalling trains. Reminded me of times I used to meet Mum there when we both worked in London as I lurked by the Sherlock Holmes statue. Waiting gave me the opportunity to do a spot of freelance tour guiding, being obliged to point people to the nearby Madame Tussuad's. Great to see Mario, who I had not seen in a couple of decades.  He had commuted down from Brunel University, where he has a residency. We repaired to a local cafe and spent two and a half hours chatting. I had re-read his  iTulips recently, and this really is a magnificent book; spare and modernist, but full of beautiful words and imagery and vibrant emotion. I told him how much I admired it. He t...

693 Another low profile day, but mentally I am already climbing aboard the flight to Guernsey I am taking on Thursday. Looking forward to Richard and Jane's wedding. Some work to do so forced to biff a trip to London. Finished in the afternoon, and wandered in Brighton looking in shops. Later I completed the first draft of the Skelton in Guernsey short story. Football this evening. Listening to Radio 5 to hear Chelsea get beaten again by Manchester United in the European Cup. Chelsea having been replaced by malfunctioning clones, while their £50m striker the unfortunate Fernando Torres has now been on the pitch for 693 minutes without scoring. Some texting from Anton. Brighton however have been promoted, and are on the up. Football is futile struggling one of the distractions of what Buddhists call Saṃsāra, the ghastly hell of suffering that is this world.