Another drinking dream, they're so horrid, and so real. A rubbish night in Harriet's lovely bed - radio on. I did at least manage to turn the light off. We talked a lot about the art and science of not drinking and why we drink. H worries that she'll go psychotic if she stops taking the anaesthetic. Promised to send her the link to Belle's blog.
I told her how buzzy being sober seems to make me, unable to concentrate long enough to get to the end of a sentence, never mind read a book. I'm crawling through the Joe Abercrombie book that Christos recommended. And how much better I felt after my 17 mile ride here yesterday. Started out all twitchy and got here all tired and relaxed. And the ride itself was a delight. A perfect mellow autumn afternoon, not too cold, no wind, all or mostly very quiet back roads, and fresh ones for me, circumnavigated Cuntsville aka Bedfield. Beautiful colours, I videoed a couple of poems (Sex in Suffolk, and Ploughed Fields) - funny how cycling, like walking, helps in producing rhyme and rhythm. Videoing / recording it as I cycled was a brilliant wheeze. I shall upload them here.
Really missed my chamber pot. Harriet's landing is like a hall of mirrors - about half a dozen identical doors, all closed. Took me 5 goes when I arrived to find my bedroom.
F still hasn't had her baby, but says she's fine.
H and I talked about everything. My Times comment has received a shedload of recommends and comments, which is very heart warming - I am not the only one, despite all the nutters who left comments as well. Mostly about Jezza the anti-Semitic trot and friend of terrorists. I copied my comment to Momentum Sean and Aden and Felicity. Much more satisfying than getting a letter printed, really. Shame they can't divide the comments into worth reading and rubbish (they sort of do, if you brought up the list of 'most recommended').
Harriet thinks I'm wrong about time a la Dr Kate Bullman's dad. The importance of our past, and narrative, the identity of the self. How we are manipulated and influenced by the projections of others. How she learns from her patients (who she says are dwindling, like my computer clients all those years ago). Delicious canard magree (?) for supper, with roasted veggies.
Eye is even more twee than Framlingham, if that were possible. I really do hate all the rich smug people with their pretty houses and perfect lives and ridiculous cars and safe little opinions. It's all appearance, shiny and perfect like Simon Seymour Taylor in his shooting outfit, with creases in his plus fours, looking like he's just walked out of Moss Bros. They're like moths to the flame. Where are the real people? Like Laura and Andrew, or Johnny and Ingrid, and the other people who came to my party. One or two are a bit confused (playing the game of lovely things and houses, but real all the same). H said how depressed A her son is, he's been offered a perfect job (I think, she thinks so too) but won't take it - she says he has money, so he can afford to make wrong decisions. The pressure on me to take the job at the CoOp was really helpful, even if it turned into a sort of trap eventually.
Another slightly less gentle cycle home, via Framlingham. Got home feeling very tired and hungry but fixed that with bacon and scrambled eggs and toast and marmalade. A bowl of porridge probably isn't quite enough fuel for 18 miles.
No sign of anyone when I got home, or later. Began to panic, some crisis with one of the children perhaps, but they all turned up eventually, very late. A very cold night, bright bright stars and no moon. Starting to copy edit Stuart's first chapter. Hotpot and cabbage for supper, watching Kingsman - very funny, a sort of zombie movie almost.
Belle sent out a video - planting seeds with intention, inspired by looking at chestnuts which had fallen in a grave yard - some nestled in dry leaves, others on top of gravestones, going nowhere. I emailed her saying I felt I had planted a seed with intention 6 weeks ago, perhaps for the first time. That's what it feels like anyway.
No idea how I'm going to mark / celebrate tomorrow (technically today - it's 00:05) - Day 42. Seems like a long time since I started (in a good way).
I told her how buzzy being sober seems to make me, unable to concentrate long enough to get to the end of a sentence, never mind read a book. I'm crawling through the Joe Abercrombie book that Christos recommended. And how much better I felt after my 17 mile ride here yesterday. Started out all twitchy and got here all tired and relaxed. And the ride itself was a delight. A perfect mellow autumn afternoon, not too cold, no wind, all or mostly very quiet back roads, and fresh ones for me, circumnavigated Cuntsville aka Bedfield. Beautiful colours, I videoed a couple of poems (Sex in Suffolk, and Ploughed Fields) - funny how cycling, like walking, helps in producing rhyme and rhythm. Videoing / recording it as I cycled was a brilliant wheeze. I shall upload them here.
Really missed my chamber pot. Harriet's landing is like a hall of mirrors - about half a dozen identical doors, all closed. Took me 5 goes when I arrived to find my bedroom.
F still hasn't had her baby, but says she's fine.
H and I talked about everything. My Times comment has received a shedload of recommends and comments, which is very heart warming - I am not the only one, despite all the nutters who left comments as well. Mostly about Jezza the anti-Semitic trot and friend of terrorists. I copied my comment to Momentum Sean and Aden and Felicity. Much more satisfying than getting a letter printed, really. Shame they can't divide the comments into worth reading and rubbish (they sort of do, if you brought up the list of 'most recommended').
Harriet thinks I'm wrong about time a la Dr Kate Bullman's dad. The importance of our past, and narrative, the identity of the self. How we are manipulated and influenced by the projections of others. How she learns from her patients (who she says are dwindling, like my computer clients all those years ago). Delicious canard magree (?) for supper, with roasted veggies.
Eye is even more twee than Framlingham, if that were possible. I really do hate all the rich smug people with their pretty houses and perfect lives and ridiculous cars and safe little opinions. It's all appearance, shiny and perfect like Simon Seymour Taylor in his shooting outfit, with creases in his plus fours, looking like he's just walked out of Moss Bros. They're like moths to the flame. Where are the real people? Like Laura and Andrew, or Johnny and Ingrid, and the other people who came to my party. One or two are a bit confused (playing the game of lovely things and houses, but real all the same). H said how depressed A her son is, he's been offered a perfect job (I think, she thinks so too) but won't take it - she says he has money, so he can afford to make wrong decisions. The pressure on me to take the job at the CoOp was really helpful, even if it turned into a sort of trap eventually.
Another slightly less gentle cycle home, via Framlingham. Got home feeling very tired and hungry but fixed that with bacon and scrambled eggs and toast and marmalade. A bowl of porridge probably isn't quite enough fuel for 18 miles.
No sign of anyone when I got home, or later. Began to panic, some crisis with one of the children perhaps, but they all turned up eventually, very late. A very cold night, bright bright stars and no moon. Starting to copy edit Stuart's first chapter. Hotpot and cabbage for supper, watching Kingsman - very funny, a sort of zombie movie almost.
Belle sent out a video - planting seeds with intention, inspired by looking at chestnuts which had fallen in a grave yard - some nestled in dry leaves, others on top of gravestones, going nowhere. I emailed her saying I felt I had planted a seed with intention 6 weeks ago, perhaps for the first time. That's what it feels like anyway.
No idea how I'm going to mark / celebrate tomorrow (technically today - it's 00:05) - Day 42. Seems like a long time since I started (in a good way).
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