B said she writes first thing (before emails and all that crap). So left the laptop on, but offline, with Metanoia open and ready to work on, and have done a good hour and a half so far. And discovered, oh frabgious joy and rapture, the answer to why the Chrome is so effing slow. For some reason it doesn't like editing 70 page documents (you can watch it think). So I've started a new chapter and it zips along.
The chickens, who have now had their necks wrung, and been shot by Andrew in the back of the head (they barrel rolled into a ditch) and just keep coming back for more, apart from henny penny who disappeared after the first neck wringing by Laura - she says she heard the bones scrunch. I reckon the hen could see the writing on the wall and is hiding out somewhere in the woods. They are like Rasputin, only we haven't tried poison yet, or throwing them in the icy Poltava. Anyway the vet and all the chicken operation big wigs are visiting today so Laura and Andrew do not want them to spot wild and obviously not farm chickens on the loose. I have lured them with a bread roll into the downstairs loo and shut the door, and posted a warning sign on the door. Someone else can murder them. They are sweet and very tame, apart from being immortal. Very tempted to take them off to the woods and let them go, like Hansel and Gretel.
The cat is being particularly painful. If Andrew leaves his gun lying about I will not be responsible for my actions. The bloody thing sits outside my window, whining. So I go down four times since 6am to let him in, and he won't bloody well cross the threshold. Finally got him in and fed him and he's now purring like a tiger and butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Do not train animals to make pointless and irritating noises.
Meditate now. Then a meeting with Chris Clarke in Chelmsford about my pension pots. He didn't look too great when I met him at Pol's and I suspect his phone was answered this morning by an answering service. No confirmatory email that I can find about today's appointment (time, place). He may be panicked after the reaction we got from Curtis Banks to my buying a wood and living in it. Basically, according to CB, I can't - which was the only reason for transferring the money to them from Morgan Lloyd and paying Chris Clarke £4,000 in fees in the first place. Ho hum.
Finally spoke to Paul, nearly two years after Mary's death - another casualty of drinking me, although I was also otherwise preoccupied myself when he sent me the text about her funeral. He seems remarkably chipper after such a short time. Go and see him and the children in the new year. He said Liverpool Cathedral is definitely worth a visit (and I didn't have him pegged as a cathedral admirer). He's living in Formby and earning a crust as a gardener.
For completeness: the rest of my day. I pissed around until 11 or so when I finally sat down to meditate (and fell asleep). Metanoia, then meditate, then breakfast (I was going to write porridge, but I am not condemning myself to a lifetime of porridge for breakfast, although I can think of worse fates). Discovered that my meeting with Mr Pension is actually on December 13th, not today. So I drove to Waitrose in Saxmundham to do a big shop while I had the car (and then realised this is completely unnecessary and I can do online shopping for all the bulky stuff like the gallons of pink grapefruit juice I drink, and get them to deliver) - spent £60 on good stuff - money goes a lot further when not buying alcohol. I need more fridge - including two bottles of de-alcoholised wine. One from Spain is good, the other from California is glorified fruit juice - the only winey thing about it is the bottle which is maybe the point i.e. pretend to others you are drinking wine, when you're really drinking ribena. And a gallon of cod liver oil, which is easier than kippers and I'm beginning to acquire a taste for it. And two chamber pots (£5 for a nice jug and a pottery bread bin from the horse charity shop).
Then home to drop off the shopping, to Fram to return the car ro Ingrid and get screws for my table, bulldog clips for my desk (the clean and tidy bug has really bit), and bacon and a pork chop from the butchers. The other plus about no longer working for the CoOp - I go to nicer and more interesting shops.
Aiden at the CoOp said how well I was looking, on Saturday; I laughed and said it was because I wasn't working for the CoOp any more, not that it was because I hadn't had a drink for 36 days. And I keep spending money, buying stuff I've wanted for a long time, like screws and bulldog clips, yet there seems to be enough in my account. Booked a table for lunch with Annie on Wednesday, about which I am now developing cold feet. Said hello to Ingrid and pedalled home.
The chickens are finally dead - I think Laura pulled their heads off. Diana is back, cross because we've been so mean to her animals (not letting them sleep on the furniture or piss and crap on the carpets or make pointless noises). Booked my train to London for next week and printed my e-ticket (much better than trying to get the bloody ticket machine to give the tickets to me on the platform with my invalid CoOp debit card). Meditated. Did not fall asleep. Nice supper - pork chop, celeriac mash and green beans with a glass of the nice fake red wine.
Watched 'Boy with a topknot' which the BBC describes as humorous, but seems tragic to me. I can't remember how the book ended. It's very good. Then docs about Burgess, Maclean and Philby - they really were spies and they really were responsible for lots of people getting killed. Finished with a particularly creepy photo of Philby. I wonder if he was a sociopath - everyone thought he was charming and loved him and called him the gentleman spy while he was grassing them all up to Stalin and the KGB / NKVD. An encouraging one minute message from Belle, about not eating meat if you're a vegan, or tomatoes if they give you a rash, or drinking 'just to be polite' - looking after the inside of your own head (because no one else will). And so to bed.
My poem grows - the moon, Howard's End, the moon again. Not sure if it will work. Funny writing a poem when sober; I didn't think it was possible. Pol thought my poem about Orford was good, also written in cold blood as it were.
The chickens, who have now had their necks wrung, and been shot by Andrew in the back of the head (they barrel rolled into a ditch) and just keep coming back for more, apart from henny penny who disappeared after the first neck wringing by Laura - she says she heard the bones scrunch. I reckon the hen could see the writing on the wall and is hiding out somewhere in the woods. They are like Rasputin, only we haven't tried poison yet, or throwing them in the icy Poltava. Anyway the vet and all the chicken operation big wigs are visiting today so Laura and Andrew do not want them to spot wild and obviously not farm chickens on the loose. I have lured them with a bread roll into the downstairs loo and shut the door, and posted a warning sign on the door. Someone else can murder them. They are sweet and very tame, apart from being immortal. Very tempted to take them off to the woods and let them go, like Hansel and Gretel.
The cat is being particularly painful. If Andrew leaves his gun lying about I will not be responsible for my actions. The bloody thing sits outside my window, whining. So I go down four times since 6am to let him in, and he won't bloody well cross the threshold. Finally got him in and fed him and he's now purring like a tiger and butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Do not train animals to make pointless and irritating noises.
Meditate now. Then a meeting with Chris Clarke in Chelmsford about my pension pots. He didn't look too great when I met him at Pol's and I suspect his phone was answered this morning by an answering service. No confirmatory email that I can find about today's appointment (time, place). He may be panicked after the reaction we got from Curtis Banks to my buying a wood and living in it. Basically, according to CB, I can't - which was the only reason for transferring the money to them from Morgan Lloyd and paying Chris Clarke £4,000 in fees in the first place. Ho hum.
Finally spoke to Paul, nearly two years after Mary's death - another casualty of drinking me, although I was also otherwise preoccupied myself when he sent me the text about her funeral. He seems remarkably chipper after such a short time. Go and see him and the children in the new year. He said Liverpool Cathedral is definitely worth a visit (and I didn't have him pegged as a cathedral admirer). He's living in Formby and earning a crust as a gardener.
For completeness: the rest of my day. I pissed around until 11 or so when I finally sat down to meditate (and fell asleep). Metanoia, then meditate, then breakfast (I was going to write porridge, but I am not condemning myself to a lifetime of porridge for breakfast, although I can think of worse fates). Discovered that my meeting with Mr Pension is actually on December 13th, not today. So I drove to Waitrose in Saxmundham to do a big shop while I had the car (and then realised this is completely unnecessary and I can do online shopping for all the bulky stuff like the gallons of pink grapefruit juice I drink, and get them to deliver) - spent £60 on good stuff - money goes a lot further when not buying alcohol. I need more fridge - including two bottles of de-alcoholised wine. One from Spain is good, the other from California is glorified fruit juice - the only winey thing about it is the bottle which is maybe the point i.e. pretend to others you are drinking wine, when you're really drinking ribena. And a gallon of cod liver oil, which is easier than kippers and I'm beginning to acquire a taste for it. And two chamber pots (£5 for a nice jug and a pottery bread bin from the horse charity shop).
Then home to drop off the shopping, to Fram to return the car ro Ingrid and get screws for my table, bulldog clips for my desk (the clean and tidy bug has really bit), and bacon and a pork chop from the butchers. The other plus about no longer working for the CoOp - I go to nicer and more interesting shops.
Aiden at the CoOp said how well I was looking, on Saturday; I laughed and said it was because I wasn't working for the CoOp any more, not that it was because I hadn't had a drink for 36 days. And I keep spending money, buying stuff I've wanted for a long time, like screws and bulldog clips, yet there seems to be enough in my account. Booked a table for lunch with Annie on Wednesday, about which I am now developing cold feet. Said hello to Ingrid and pedalled home.
The chickens are finally dead - I think Laura pulled their heads off. Diana is back, cross because we've been so mean to her animals (not letting them sleep on the furniture or piss and crap on the carpets or make pointless noises). Booked my train to London for next week and printed my e-ticket (much better than trying to get the bloody ticket machine to give the tickets to me on the platform with my invalid CoOp debit card). Meditated. Did not fall asleep. Nice supper - pork chop, celeriac mash and green beans with a glass of the nice fake red wine.
Watched 'Boy with a topknot' which the BBC describes as humorous, but seems tragic to me. I can't remember how the book ended. It's very good. Then docs about Burgess, Maclean and Philby - they really were spies and they really were responsible for lots of people getting killed. Finished with a particularly creepy photo of Philby. I wonder if he was a sociopath - everyone thought he was charming and loved him and called him the gentleman spy while he was grassing them all up to Stalin and the KGB / NKVD. An encouraging one minute message from Belle, about not eating meat if you're a vegan, or tomatoes if they give you a rash, or drinking 'just to be polite' - looking after the inside of your own head (because no one else will). And so to bed.
My poem grows - the moon, Howard's End, the moon again. Not sure if it will work. Funny writing a poem when sober; I didn't think it was possible. Pol thought my poem about Orford was good, also written in cold blood as it were.
Comments
Post a Comment
Say anything you like. I do.