Since last we spoke

October 27, 2005

I now favour dour afternoons over rainy nights. Better for holding séances.

Fingers still smell of nasturtiums. Crazy man beard growth and hair. Holes in trousers. Fine that way. Cave-dwelling winter approaches.

There’s a red and blue parrot been flying around the gardens. One of the staves of the fence is coming off. All it needs is a nail. Sometimes a nail takes weeks to get round to. I keep opening up the cupboards to admire the beauty of my pickled onions. If I was Polish I’d probably go down the pickle cellar every day just to relish my abundance.

Pine nuts taste of turpentine and I like that. I haven’t seen a hedgehog for years. I love the way a fox jumps up my six foot fence at the end of the garden, makes next door’s cat Pansy look like a bloated piece of tortoiseshell lard.

Took a pile of books off the floor and put them back on the shelf. May not sound like much to you.

There are no biscuits in the house.

No aliens today. The new headline font in The Guardian is rubbish. In the moonlight, the other day, a silver alien moved out from behind the lilac tree and danced across the wet grass, I sat there watching saying to myself: ‘Now I know that is a figment of my imagination, but nonetheless that’s fairly convincing.’

These days, I take a lot of things in my stride.

Perhaps I should just write anything. Bit like pretending to throw a stick for a dog. It’s in the arm action, they just assume there’s something flying through the air. Nope, I never chucked anything. You got excited for nothing.