Haven’t listened to this in ages. Got the music on random shuffle, the laundry done, time to relax. I should be working, but I’m shattered after the weekend, and all I want to do is crash out, especailly since tonight and tomorrow are the only quiet nights in I’ve got this week – I’m seeing Fin again on Wednesday, and going to a gig at Gossips, then I’m out for Thursday night with the comics mob, Friday in Carshalton, probably, and then Antony and Marcia’s drinks on Saturday. I kinda feel like I haven’t seen enough of the WEF crowd lately anyway, and I haven’t seen some of the folk that’ll be attending this in ages, so I’m really looking forward to it.
But I kinda feel like lately I’m lurching from one weekend to the next, with scarely enough time to gather my thoughts in between. Not the weekends are bad, far from it. They’re the bit that I endure the rest of the week to get to. But I still haven’t settled into Woodford. I don’t think I will – it’s not my place on this edge of London. I head South at the weekends, and the pavement comes alive under my feet, a crackle of memory and story in the tarmac, and things work properly again. And it’s not that there aren’t stories here on the edge of this primeval forest – this was Churchill’s seat, the Pankhursts are from nearby, and fuck, there’s Iron Age ruins and Big Dead Bones nearby – the place ought to hum with ghosts.
But they’re not talking to me. They know where my head is – in the centre, and worse, South, with Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, with the Saxons and the Romans. Out West with Dee and Elizabeth. Anywhere but here in this weird melange of concrete and grass that won’t make sense from any angle.
As you’ve probably twigged, this is just an excercise in kicking the dust out of my head, trying to get the words started for the evening. It seems to have worked, so I’ll see you later.
And I’m going to use Big Dead Bones as a title for something one day, I promise.