What a week. Not sure what’s happening, exactly, except no time to accomplish anything. I said I was having an early night and I’ve been flaked out over the laptop – or I mean under it – for the past three hours, which I barely even remember now. So I haven’t written that blog post about the student demonstration in Westminster today, which prevented me working all afternoon with the helicopters overhead and the rising sense of something big being afoot. I’m pleased to say Mlle B was in it, though I didn’t know that at the time. She didn’t storm Whitehall. I’m proud of her: these people need to see what they’re doing. I can’t even condemn the storming of Whitehall. What the hell did they think was going to happen? Did they really think they could just do anything they liked and everyone would just sit here? No… all the serious pundits have been saying it’s like Thatcherism again. So there will be riots. (Loads of people on Twitter this afternoon pointing out that the old boys in the Bullingdon Club used to smash things up too, and not even in protest – just for fun. Thugs.)
Nor have I written my review of Gabriel Josipovici’s meringue of a quirky novel, Only Joking, which I read with voracious happiness over the weekend. I was going to review it in an effort to stick to a more grown-up kind of posting, you know, about something. Bookish, or arty. Something official, i.e., not about me. Anyway, I will, I will.
On which note, nor have I read any more of Molloy (I know! Three novels in two weeks! and it is just like my dreams. Except that lately I keep dreaming about one particular friend, and it isn’t someone I’d expect to be dreaming about either. Well, maybe that IS like it), or even dipped yet into Owen Hatherley’s Guide to the New Ruins of Great Britain, which was carefully propped up against my front door when I arrived home this evening. Oh, I had Horizon Review stuff to do as well. Jesus. But to be honest I started feeling a little weird, a little bit thinned-out this afternoon (though obv not in a better-clothes-size way), like some kind of systemic fatigue, and so I came home and have missed the launch of Elizabeth Baines’ book, The Birth Machine, which I had planed to go to. I think I just needed three solid hours of being in a stupor, before I could even sleep. No one can do everything.
And is this really life? Work, current affairs and to-do lists? Hm. Well, I suppose that’s why we have the solace of to-do lists.
Nor did I even go to the Post Office, two days running.
On the plus side, regular readers will be pleased to know that the Tall Blond Rock God is now officially in Eugene, Oregon, where he landed safely in the wee hours and is already excited at the size of the American beer section. I think I probably used up a little extra energy today & yesterday, waiting to hear that news.
Baroque in Hackney 