I FEEL BETTER for having a big hit of B. If you're wondering why the Enid Blyton language below it's to do with me striving to avoid bad language. Becuse I know myself. If I do start that the whole thing will turn into a kind of truckdriver's four-letter rant blog rather than what you see before you: my can you make head nor tail of my Self-depracating Irony-sincerity no I don't think everyone does stylee.
Tonight I'm not posing any questions and I'm not answering anything except what precisely was I originally keeping this blog for? Isn't this meant to be my confessional blog? So what am I doing? I feel myself self-censoring something meaningful.
If I did dig it out, I'm sure it would only make y'all laugh...
I HATE NIGHT-TIME. That "turn off the light and go to sleep because everyone else is sleeping" time. Maybe I'd do better in New York City. Is that really the City that Never Sleeps? More than London? I wouldn't know: I have no comparison. My local shops are open 24-7. The local supermarket is open 24 hours all week; but come the weekend and bizarre Sunday trading regulations it has to shut sometime over Saturday night to reopen 10 till 5 or something stupid on Sundays so the staff can "go to church". As if any of them actually do.
My nearest local pubs shut around midnight or one a.m. One further up the road stays open till about four at weekends, but I'm definitely not in the mood for that place tonight. As I've mentioned loads of times, I used to go partying every weekend. Clubbing on E. But eventually, in the end, when reality (of whatever type) hits you, it just gets frazzling to mind, body and soul. I have too many memories of bleak mornings, chilled to the core, too knackered to walk, stuck on the wrong side of the river miles from home and probably trudging to somebody's house where I don't want to be anyhow to hear yet more techno, take in the herbal aroma of other people toking spliff (because I wouldn't touch one) and keep gum-chewing as my mind continues to scramble on E.
Really, in my heart of hearts, what I need in such a situation is a long hot bath plus deep restorative unconsciousness.
Possibly deep restorative unconsciousness isn't too far off tonight. And besides: even if it's not, the airwaves are alive with kids running their pirate radio stations. They are alwyas good for a Saturday-night laugh, and the dial is choc-a-block with them. We get the best TV and radio reception in this corner of town. I got digital TV through a £1.99 aerial. Whereas most people have to spend £100 on a rooftop replacement (that's what that little star signifies in the Argos catalogue "in some cases aerial upgrade may be required" - you bet!)
If only my brains were less inclined towards scrambling. Have I a project to sit down to? Something ghhhh. (Not like me. The word's escaped my skull.) Something worthwhile to... Think. Think. Well don't think. Thinking hurts. I'm off to read irrelevant things. Providing I can concentrate. (What IS relevant..?)
Staying at the Palace - Most of my holidays were spent in a caravan in Port Eynon on Gower. It belonged to a friend of my mum's who let us use it for a week a year. [image: Regent...
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