Alasdair Watson

I’m not really a fan of small children. I’m just not suited to dealing with them. But I’m not totally heartless, and the news of any small child dying always makes me think that we still haven’t got things sorted out properly. But in this case, it’s just such a shame on so many levels. I cannot believe that a five year old can have sense of humour like that…

I’m sick of computers. I’m sure I had a life away from mine at some point, but in the last few days, I think the longest time I have been awake and not staring at a computer screen has been the 40-odd minutes I take for lunch each day. I had things I was going to say here, but my need to get away from the screen and do something else must take precedence.

I was going to write and post some short fiction this evening, but I can’t get it come together, which will at least teach me that ideas had under the influence of Kate Bush lyrics are probably less clever than they first appear. And I seem to have accidentally spent all evening writing e-mails and posting to message boards.

I have been trying to explain the more transcendental aspects of The Invisibles to some of my friends, who are probably about to give up on me either as hopelessly mad or a complete poseur. I think, on balance, I’d rather be the former. So long as I could be the latter in my spare time.

I’d like you all to do me a favour, and take a walk with me, in your minds eye. It’s a bit tricky, but have a go. Think of London, seen from the air – a straight-down, satellite view. Now, lay the tube map across it. Don’t worry about mapping the lines to their correct geographical points – the stylised map is fine. Hold them both together in your head – reality, and the version of London that exists only in concept, but is travelled by millions every day.

Fade reality out. Step through, into this real and concrete plane of concept. Look around. Somwhere around here, there’s a woman called Augusta. You can call her August, though. She doesn’t stand on ceremony, and it’s been a long time since most people thought of her as Augusta. I’m not going to tell you what she looks like. You have to make up your own mind about that. She’s older than empires, but still fresh and new. She’s been though hardships and seen great glories, and she’s bigger than any of us. She’s London, given flesh and form in your mind.

Now do something for me.

Tell her I said “Thank you.”

I feel like something shat in me. This is not good, because I appear to be extremely busy for the next while, and therefore do not have time to be unwell. Work tomorrow, then pub, then 24-hour comics thing on Saturday/Sunday, environmental fair on Monday, and all in all, this would be bad.

Rufus Wainwright singing Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”, which I know I’ve talked about here before. But it’s a beautiful song, and can stand to be talked about more. :) Except, of course, that I don’t really have a lot to say, other then, gosh, it’s one of the most moving songs I know, and one of only three to ever make me shed a tear.

Take one punnet of Strawberries, half a pint of milk and two shots of Calvados. Hull the straberries. Blend. Makes just over a pint of strawberry joy.

I post this partly because I wanted to use the title “Pink Sexiness In A Glass” and partly to make Fin jealous. :)

Sigur Ros are playing the Royal Festival Hall on October the 1st, price 17.50. Should I go? Does anyone else want to come? I can’t decide…