Tuesday, June 21, 2005
I tried to be sensible, I tried
Yes, it's a white cowboy hat with a tiara on the front of it. But it's not so much a white cowboy hat with a tiara on the front of it as a comment on white cowboy hats with tiaras on the front of them.
Excellent.
Preparations are going well. I have more types of wipe than you could shake an exfoliating natural loofah at. I have a new tent - resentful purchase as the only thing wrong with the old one was a single broken rod, but this one is better, having both a proper carry-bag (not the macho sausage-skin-thing with the sadistic bit of finger-slicing string at the top that is as unwieldy as holy hell) and, hallelujah, spare rods.
I have three bits of apoplectic scribble to finish, not to mention some small bit of businessy copywriting, and invoices and I don't even know if this bloke has paid me, even though I got a statement today. I can't keep track. Dammit.
Anyway.
Just been reminded that no fucker has yet noticed my heroic contribution to the Thing. Aye lad, ye'll ken. They don't realise that through their neglect they are forcing me ever closer to pointless controversial outburstings of the kind newspaper journos make when they're feeling a bit lowly and wormy (but which I could never make because it's entirely immature and destroys all credibility, so that was an empty threat, take note). And yet I couldn't, if I'm honest with myself, give the gluteus maximus of a rattus norveticus. It's when you start to care less about the attention that you can write freely and without that horrible gluey self-conscious sheen. Yes. But still. I mean, come on.
I went microlighting yesterday. I microlit. It was wonderful. Flying 2000 feet high over the Cheshire countryside, in a pretty green Victorian sit-up bath underneath a giant covered coathanger, was so surreal it went all the way over into perfectly normal. In some macho attempt to frighten me the instructor took off at silly speed, ascended vertically and spiralled back down to land 40-odd minutes later like a just-swatted moth. But I was much more pleased than I was nauseous. It was a lovely day for it, and I got quite wistful thinking about all the crazy fools of old who had striven and stroven for this, risking their lives to try and somehow get a human being into the air in something. They would have been so happy.
Today I said goodbye to Sensible, who had brought me more CDs out of the goodness of his good kind heart. He is off to Australia and NZ and South America for nine months. I will miss him. Last night I said hello to the Brief, when I could get a word in. She is going on holiday for somewhat less time and is going to mould me in her own drinky-party-flirty-girly image when she gets back. I will take it like a man. She'd just better not palm off any more builders on me when she doesn't want them bothering her anymore. Or there will be bother all up in her grill.
Tomorrow I'm off to spend money I don't really have in a field, after being sent up a pole. Second new experience of the week. I'm already exhausted. And cannot begin to contemplate choice of clothing beyond trusty multi-pockety trousers.
All good, though. All good. Yes!
Excellent.
Preparations are going well. I have more types of wipe than you could shake an exfoliating natural loofah at. I have a new tent - resentful purchase as the only thing wrong with the old one was a single broken rod, but this one is better, having both a proper carry-bag (not the macho sausage-skin-thing with the sadistic bit of finger-slicing string at the top that is as unwieldy as holy hell) and, hallelujah, spare rods.
I have three bits of apoplectic scribble to finish, not to mention some small bit of businessy copywriting, and invoices and I don't even know if this bloke has paid me, even though I got a statement today. I can't keep track. Dammit.
Anyway.
Just been reminded that no fucker has yet noticed my heroic contribution to the Thing. Aye lad, ye'll ken. They don't realise that through their neglect they are forcing me ever closer to pointless controversial outburstings of the kind newspaper journos make when they're feeling a bit lowly and wormy (but which I could never make because it's entirely immature and destroys all credibility, so that was an empty threat, take note). And yet I couldn't, if I'm honest with myself, give the gluteus maximus of a rattus norveticus. It's when you start to care less about the attention that you can write freely and without that horrible gluey self-conscious sheen. Yes. But still. I mean, come on.
I went microlighting yesterday. I microlit. It was wonderful. Flying 2000 feet high over the Cheshire countryside, in a pretty green Victorian sit-up bath underneath a giant covered coathanger, was so surreal it went all the way over into perfectly normal. In some macho attempt to frighten me the instructor took off at silly speed, ascended vertically and spiralled back down to land 40-odd minutes later like a just-swatted moth. But I was much more pleased than I was nauseous. It was a lovely day for it, and I got quite wistful thinking about all the crazy fools of old who had striven and stroven for this, risking their lives to try and somehow get a human being into the air in something. They would have been so happy.
Today I said goodbye to Sensible, who had brought me more CDs out of the goodness of his good kind heart. He is off to Australia and NZ and South America for nine months. I will miss him. Last night I said hello to the Brief, when I could get a word in. She is going on holiday for somewhat less time and is going to mould me in her own drinky-party-flirty-girly image when she gets back. I will take it like a man. She'd just better not palm off any more builders on me when she doesn't want them bothering her anymore. Or there will be bother all up in her grill.
Tomorrow I'm off to spend money I don't really have in a field, after being sent up a pole. Second new experience of the week. I'm already exhausted. And cannot begin to contemplate choice of clothing beyond trusty multi-pockety trousers.
All good, though. All good. Yes!
