Friday, 9 October 2009

Next door are having a impromptu jam session right next to my room. Bongos, banging metal, a pile o shit rhythms and a mega fucking racket, faster and faster, louder and louder, are you frigging joking? And then silence, time for me to listen to the other next door doing a bit of drilling and power sawing, and to look over at my very burnt cake, and try and imagine myself as an inspiringly light Holly Golightly character who has tasseled earplugs and wakes up looking glorious after no sleep and everything's fab-u-lous.

BANG BANG DUSH DUSH SHUT THE FUCK UP. I was going to go to bed at 10.30, after sitting down nicely with Nigel on the sofa, relaxing, loving the bit where he likes the meringue a bit too much, a bit of camera play. I enjoyed the brief chat we had at Lantana yesterday about the cookbook. I wondered and fancied about it a little...SORRY I CAN'T FUCKING THINK BECAUSE THE BONGOS...

It's about an hour later, I have had a vodka and lemonade to stave off the bongos. Today was a success in that I finished a few tasks, semi-permanently fixed my wheel, had a really insightful chat that I wasn't expecting, where I realised I didn't really have that much to say and I really should start thinking. Describe my work, who knows. It made me want to remake things I finished with, starting on repeat where I left off. We sat on the bench and it sounded like a script.

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