under another sun

A bit hungover. Up early as Lorraine was off to see her pal Carolyn, I pottered about at home, and read one of the stories from Keyhole by Matthew Rees, editor of Horla, and it was excellent. In the evening, Lorraine and I drove off to Sussex University, where we watched I'm a Phonex, Bitch  a one woman show by Bryony Kimmings . This was an autobiographical show about postnatal depression, the end of a relationship and the clawback to sanity and the rebuilding of life. Amazing set and special effects, and she zoomed about the stage with enormous energy. Just wonderful and we loved it.

A sadder and wiser man this morning. Up early after gratefully draining the cup of tea Lorraine brought me, and proceeded in a state of some fragility. Quietly and ineffectually did stuff at my desk. Received a poetry rejection. Chiefly grateful that, unlike John, I didn't have to immediately get up and head off to a studio to play drums. Beth thin on the ground most of the day till she went out for food with Laura this evening. Flyers for the play arrived, looking good. I went for one judicious walk creeping about the neighbourhood. Luckily I had no freelance work today. I cooked a chicken stew, which was my chief accomplishment of the day, along with speaking to Toby, experiencing the first snow of the year. Romy's eye improving thankfully. Spoke to  Mum and Mas. Mas is off to hospital tomorrow, and all being well will have his op on Wednesday. Him and mum just wanting to get it over with. Lorraine home and tired. I fed her chicken stew and we chatted on the sofa all ev...

Hangover Bad hangover. Very bad hangover. But no rest for the wicked. Into town to buy cards and presents for Sam and Pat who, grandfather and grandson, share a birthday tomorrow. Set off by bus in blazing sunlight, pausing in a charity shop run by a pleasant transgender person with bosoms. Sun turned rapidly into rain. Sodden, we dived into a cafe, then more shopping and Pat and I chatting outside, and listening to a street jazz band. Later Lorraine, Pat and I back to the theatre to collect the various alien and pirate costumes and props. I then lay down wanly having taken some headache pills. In the evening we all watched the Da Vinci Code, in which characters stand around explaining things to one another. It was entertaining enough, as was Match of the Day and Arsenal's massive 8-2 defeat at the hands of evil Manchester United. Pat, Lorraine and Maureen in the Laines. Note evil sky in the background.

An old fashioned Sunday hangover Up early due to the skewer someone had inserted in my skull overnight, and Shaila and I tottered up the hill to where she had parked her car, and drove about Brighton until we found a car park near the sparkling sea. Crept back to eat quorn sausage sandwiches with Lorraine, and sup teas as Calliope gambolled about. After some time Shaila felt she could cope with the drive home, and after walking her to her car, and fond farewells, I cooked a curry while Lorraine watched the last episodes of BSG. Lorraine went home to give some furniture to Graeme who is moving to Dorset. I shambled around later, to move a chest of draws and talk to each other in joined up sentences before ambling home again. Listening to Goodbye To All That by Robert Graves as an audiobook on the way home. His experiences at Charterhouse school sound utterly vile.

Hangovers and longnoses Fragile and badly hung over this morning. I think my new life officially begins next Monday. I can't start it with a hangover. For a bad hangover makes simple things very complicated. For some reason my mobile phone wasn't working, and it took most of the morning to work out that if I turned it off and on again it might work. Managed a spot of light shopping, including going to the Chinese store and buying a bag of dried black fungus, beansprouts and a tray of small but meaningful chillies. Probably because I was creeping about hypochondriacally, I was asked three times if I needed help. And then was given lots of cheerful but unasked-for advice about how you can freeze chillies, and that the beansprouts needed washing before using and so on while I was standing about blearily wanting to plunge needles in my own eyes. A quiet night indoors virtuously sipping sparkling mineral water with a squeeze of lemon. Watched Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's new se...