Today:
8:30. Wake to catch the beginning of a particularly pathos laden episode of 'Fraiser'. This causes me to become immensely introspective and start examining my moral and religious ideologies. Do I believe in God? I did until Mother's accident. She slipped on the wet floor in the kitchen and had her spleen penetrated by quite a warm feta salad recently purchased from Asda. She lay unconscious in hospital for months, unable to do anything but sing '5 Years' by The Dave Bowie Band. Why was this Woman in the prime of her life so afflicted - because she dared to defy convention and get married smoking a church-warden pipe?
9:00 Prompted by an old episode of 'Will And Grace' have cause again to explore my value system. How can I believe in God when only last week I caught my tongue in the roller of an electric typewriter? Am plagued with doubts.
10:00 Switch on the radio. Listen to news. What if everything is an illusion and nothing exists? In that case, I definitely overpaid for my carpet! If God would only give me a sign. Like making a deposit in my name at a bank in the Caymen Islands.
11:00 Have coffee with Jules. She looks rather resplendent this morning. Very chic in fact, all lithe and sporting a very health glow. Her brown hair let down, tumbling across her shoulders like a chocolate waterfall. I recognise the Dior Homme jacket and Marc Jacobs trousers she's wearing,,, and hold on, are those my old Predetor's she's got on? J'accuse!
Storm out of coffee shop incandescent with rage at the discovery that she's had it away with my favourite old footy boots. (And after she's said 5 times that she won't have sex with me today.)
12:00 Lunch. Jules phones to apologise for pinching my footy boots and says I can have them back anytime after the weekend. We chat about her idea of having all government officials dress like hens.
(Still no nearer any sex. I can tell that this is going to be a war of attrition!)
1:00 Play idea: A character based on Richard Swinney, but without quite so prominent a big toe and the rampaging cock-rot. He is sent to the Sorbonne to study sandwich making. In the end he dies not having realised his dream - to sit up to his waist in gravy. (I see a brilliant second-act curtain, where two midgets come upon a severed head in a shipment of volleyballs.)
2:00 while taking my afternoon walk today I have more morbid thoughts. What is it about death that bothers me so much? Probably the hours. Plato said the soul is immortal and lives on after the body drops away, but if my soul exists without my body I am convinced that all my clothes will be lose fitting. Oh well then.
Here's some records to listen to as a reward for reading the previous. You deserve it.
Mazzy Star - Into Dust
The Rolling Stones - 2'000 Man
The Pixies - Motorway To Roswell
Wilco - Nothingsevergonnastandinmyway (Again)
Mark Lanegan - Strange Religion
Rare Earth - I Know I'm Losing You
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