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.
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