I’m growing fond of Streatham Hill. It’s a buzzword for ‘shit’ around much of London, which I quite like. I ask somebody at a party where they live and they say ‘Pimlico’ or ‘Balham’ or whatever, and I say ‘nice’, and then they ask me where I live and I say Streatham and they say ‘oo’—the same sort of ‘oo’ noise people make when a footballer on the telly trips up and his shin bones burst through his calves.
Continue readingWell I’m not on antidepressants anymore lol.
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In one hour, my phone will ring. It will be a doctor, someone who I understand is called Laura, and she will ask me what is the matter and I will tell her I think I am depressed, and I will ask her to help me by prescribing me anti-depressants and therapy—the latter, of course, only if NHS waiting lists allow.
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Hello you.
Today is a hangover day because yesterday was band practice in a room over in Camden somewhere. I’m saying ‘band practice’ in a very casual way that implies I do it all the time, but this was actually the first in almost a decade. I was round at Sam’s garden in Clapham two weeks ago for beers, and we drunkenly decided to form a band once we learned Sam’s colleague Mike, who was also present, can play the drums. Sam plays guitar, as do I, so there you have it: band.
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Look at that, I actually did it. Writing creatively for three days in a row! How good. How lovely. How nice.
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I am going to try and write a little bit every day. I’ve decided. I want to get more practice at writing things I enjoy, not solely corporate metallic pieces. So hello—here I go, doing a little daily diary.
Aside: I wonder if professional cow milkers keep journals. If they did they could call it a daily dairy diary.
Continue readingI have moved. I am no longer living in France, though I miss it with all my heart and do earnestly hope to return and gain citizenship one day.
I am now located in London, and I have been here for eleven days.
Continue readingI’m bald, I’m bruised and I’m swollen; I look like a kiwi left behind in a lunchbox in the ruins of Chernobyl.
Continue readingI look like a toad. I look like a sack of flour that’s been hung from a butcher’s hook and thumped until it burst. I look like an unkempt ballbag, recoiling in the sunlight for the first time after a long winter bundled up inside a pair of long johns.
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