Month: February 2018

It’s a funny place, the Royal Northern College of Music. When I arrived yesterday, Natalie Imbruglia was noodling away in the room next door to me, warming up for a concert. She didn’t sing Torn, but it was nice to hear her familiar voice so close. I resisted going in to talk to her. I figured she’d come to me in time, but perhaps she didn’t know I was there. Oh well. Next time.

Today has been a long day of very little. We’ve met all the youth cast and immediately thrown the schedule out the window because the biggest hitch is integrating them into the musical numbers that I’m not involved in. We are in a little room upstairs with no sunlight. Everyone is going a little mad. And it’s even madder downstairs.

The college is hosting the International Theatre Dance Awards. What this means is that every inch of the cafe and foyer is thronged with a rainbow of leotards. Filling these colourful stretchy garments are enough muscular young women to efficiently lay siege to London. With their hair pulled back to the point of blood, they stretch and spin and plié barefoot surrounded by people trying to drink coffee and phone their brother. They all have numbers on their shirts, and proud aunties photograph them in front of the statue of Chopin, branded bits of wall, mum and dad. They eyeball each other as they pose for camera. “I’ll beat those fuckers,” they seem to be projecting through all that make-up.

At one point, curious, I ask one of the parents “Is this for women only, or are there men dancing too?” “Oh there’s a man in the one that’s on now,” she responds. I see no evidence to support her claim. Maybe it’s just the one.

I take refuge upstairs and the director catches on that I’m twiddling my thumbs. He gives me a few hours off. I jump on the bike and zip over to catch Nathan. We lived together for a few years. For a period we were inseparable. My sister in law thought we were a couple. We sometimes fought as if we were.  Now he’s up here, father of two girls, sounding like a northerner even though he’s from Weston Super-Mare. We go to Brewdog and I nurse a “Nanny State” for the placebo effect. 17 days into Sexy February and I still miss beer. It’s great that I’ve got this bike, because my desire not to die outweighs my lust for blunter edges. But it’s great to see Nathan. Hopefully I’ll catch him again before I go.

Now I’m back in rehearsal, available and unused. It makes a difference, playing a small part. Scrooge is on the whole time. You don’t notice the time passing as you’re just working. Schrank comes on in bursts, so I’m glad it’s only a short run. The advantage is that I can take strong choices vocally and physically and not end up utterly exhausted after the show.

The young company are great. Willing and positive. Fun, and energetically very different from the dancers downstairs. I’d much sooner wait around all day in this atmosphere than the dancer atmosphere.

They’re singing “Tonight”. I’m going to try and find something to take a photograph of that isn’t the company.

Yep. A room full of instruments.

Nobody in it though. It’s 9pm. We are the only idiots that haven’t gone home. Us and one pianist who I can hear just round the corner playing something extremely complicated with great feeling. All of this reminds me very strongly of being that drama student at Guildhall all of – what -15 years ago and more? Time. You fucker. You absolute fucker.

Early train to Manchester this morning, and Robin picks me up from the station. He drives me to Charlotte’s and we drop off my bag before heading over to Bowlee Riders. Rob part owns Bowlee – it’s a motorcycle training business based in Middleton. If anyone needs a CBT in the Manchester area, get over there.

In no time at all I’m sitting on a Honda Grom. 

I’ve got it for the week. It’s a tiny little 125cc machine, beautifully kitted up. For something so small it packs a surprising punch. Much as I like to jump in with both feet, I’m very aware of how much damage these things can do so I’m cautious. Robin shouldn’t still be alive after breaking everything a few years ago and he’s training me. He gives me an earpiece and I almost rip my ear off getting the helmet on. Second attempt is more successful though, and before long I’m out on the road with both my ears and Robin behind me giving me tips and instructions as we go. With him behind me taking away the responsibility of thinking about where I’m going I can focus wholly on stuff like not going face first into a wall, cancelling my indicator and avoiding the potholes. The roads in Manchester are in a condition you’d expect from somewhere that has recently suffered an aerial bombardment. Which makes it a good city in which to get used to biking. Another great friend who teaches motorcycling says “You’re invisible and everyone is trying to kill you ” In Manchester the roads are trying to kill you too. You have no choice but to concentrate.

We ride for a long time before eventually we get to The Royal Northern College of Music. This is where I’ll be working, and we pull up out the front. Immediately I run into the Assistant Director who persuades me to come in for a costume fitting on my day off in exchange for a couple of rounds of drink and some meal tickets. I drink some Estrella 0.0, keep the vouchers for another day, and try out my costume.

I’m already in love with my trenchcoat.

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Duty discharged I got back on the bike, but this time it was dark and I didn’t have the disembodied voice of Robin to see me right. Driving a bike is a visceral experience, even this little Grom. You are constantly totally alert. If you’ve got an itch you mostly can’t scratch it. My hands got so cold at the start that I can still feel the residual chill in them now, hours later. I got lost on the way home. My helmet strap was digging into my neck. My nose was running. And I didn’t care enough to stop because the whole experience was forcing me to be utterly completely and uncompromisingly alert with all senses and wide awake and loving it. Now I have some glove liners thanks to Robin. I have a waterproof armoured coat too. Tomorrow it might rain, and perversely I’m quite looking forward to riding in the wet. It’ll be hard. I’ll need to be awake. But for tonight I’m already in bed in this lovely little room, and I’m tired from the riding. It takes it out of you. For someone that relishes challenge, riding an unfamiliar machine that’s a feather away from death through an unfamiliar city – that somehow counts as fun. Some of us are just wired that way. But don’t fret. Robin is a very careful and patient instructor and I know I wouldn’t be extended this generosity if he didn’t know of me that I’m going to be as careful as possible on the thing. Despite it being so much fun.

I had a brilliant Valentine’s night last night, taking out all pressure to be sexy. At the mid point of Sexy February I was in my trainers and a long scarf of my mum’s, not drinking in a pub in Kentish Town, and doing it in fantastic company. Robyn, my princess, was having her last day in town. She was Phoebe to my Silvius in As You Like It for Sprite. Still one of my favourite ever jobs. I made loads of great friends, including a sheep. She now lives in New York and was over with her man for way too short a time. I stayed at her place on the Lower East Side a few years ago and we rode the Staten Island Ferry back and forth because it’s free. I pounded the summer streets for days and learnt that town a little. There was a bin strike and God the city was feeling it. I’m looking forward to going back some time soon, when it doesn’t stink. The piles of bags were a remarkable thing to see, but not in the least pleasant to smell.

We said goodbye to her and then Emma and Maddy and Steve got me dinner which is a frustratingly familiar state of affairs at the moment. When I “get paid” I’m going to have a lovely couple of weeks seeing friends and repaying their generosities. I even got a rose.

For the rest of the evening a good sized bunch of actors and old friends fantasised about the huge mansion we are all going to buy in Rochester and turn into a performance venue and live there and make beautiful things. This morning I bought a lottery ticket to make sure we can all afford it. We’ll have indoor theatres and outdoor theatres and puppet theatres and paint rooms. It’s going to be awesome. We just need 1.7 million. Peanuts…

I woke up bright and early to a sunny morning. I didn’t have to be in rehearsal until twelve so buoyed up from my lovely evening and the fact I felt great because I wasn’t hung over, I frolicked out the door in my sunglasses and walked to St James’ Park, leaving messages on people’s phones about the glorious day. More or less the moment my foot hit the grass of the park, the heavens opened and a wall of grey cloud bullied in. Five minutes later I was utterly drenched, it having somehow not occurred to me to seek shelter. I still had my sunglasses on. I couldn’t shake the conviction that it was a nice day despite all evidence to the contrary. I arrived at my rehearsal in the dark, soaked to the skin, still wearing mirrored shades, looking like a prat.

Last run in the little room. We are too big for it now so it’s time to get up north. An unexpected audience-friend made for a special last run and I’m really looking forward to hitting the final week now and meeting the youth cast, the orchestra, the crew… Next week is going to be lots of work and lots of waiting. I’m bringing a thick book, my usual optimism, a motorcycle helmet and about .50p.

 

I’m standing in the freezing wind with Michael. He’s driven his tow truck down from Slough. The rain is getting in my face. Michael wants to make hard eye contact. He also likes touching my shoulder. He keeps saying “I’m talking to you man to man.” He sounds like a stuck record. I think it’s something he’s doing consciously, to “engender trust”. Although he is a man. And I’m a man. So he’s not wrong. He’s just not very good at this.

The bonnet is up on my fucked Suzuki. Today is the only day I have to get rid of it before I’m over halfway through the month and likely to get stung for tax. It’s going with Michael no matter what. But unfortunately Michael has seen the postcode.

The catalytic converter has been changed. Apparently that’s what he came for. The original one is the only thing of value in the car because it’s got platinum etc etc. It’s been changed though. Oh deary, and he’s come all the way from Slough just for the unexpected detail that isn’t present. That’s all he wanted, you see, that detail. Oh deary bye. But man to man, because I’ve got a nice face (literally he said it) etc etc he’ll do me the massive favour of getting rid of it and he’ll only charge me 50 quid. Blarney little bastard knows damn well we are going to settle at nothing here but he’s pulling out all the stops to make sure he gets this car for free, and after all this is Chelsea. He honestly genuinely tries to charge me to take my car after agreeing to pay me 100 quid cash over the phone. How can you run a business like that? I know things are tough but seriously? We’re all fucked. Why screw the little people. Now I am not able to book my train ticket to Manchester.

I could tell him to stick it up his arse, if course, but then the car is still sitting there. It cost me very little in the first place and it needs to go. Its time is done. We had a good summer together, that car and I, but the insurance is becoming a burden and the tax will be an issue very soon. And there’s no way in hell it’s passing MOT in March. Better he takes it today while I’ve got time. But don’t try and fool me into trusting you, Michael. I don’t trust you. I’m happy with “You want to get rid of it, I want to take it. I’m not giving you any money because I’m a bastard. Do you want it to sit there for another 3 months?”

I peel off the residents permit and help him winch it onto his truck. Off she goes to a new life as scrap.

Then I’m off to option B for cash. Residents permit refund. But nope. That’ll take 3 days. I call and cancel the insurance. The unused insurance for this month almost exactly matches the cancellation fee. There’s nothing to pay, but I don’t get a ticket to Manchester out of it. I’m wondering how I’ll get to Manchester when I get an email telling me the ticket has been booked on my behalf anyway. I needn’t have worried. 

At least I got rid of the car, I think, putting my hand into my pocket and feeling the car key. Oops. All that and I didn’t give Michael the key…

Ach. Well if he wants it he can give me 100 pounds the bloody crook.

Happy Valentine’s Day kids! Was your day as romantic as mine? Perhaps you wiped baby poo off the carpet, or helped build a steel truss! Tune in tomorrow for more romantic antics!! I’m off for fun with old friends.

Every year, Flavia has Pancake Day. The game is to see how many drunk people it’s possible to cram into her flat with every conceivable pancake filling available, and no space. Then the game becomes about finding the right pancake/alcohol balance for optimum hilarity. Being as I’m sexily abstemious at the moment, I thought I’d make myself useful in the kitchen so I turned myself into a one man pancake factory. There was a little squeezy pot of pancake mix with pink food colouring, so I could scrawl obscenities, political slogans, symbols, cocks, animals and disastrous messes on the pancakes before sending them out. Considering I was on nothing but tonic water, I was having way too much fun. By the end of the evening I had the scrawling and the flipping down to a fine art. Here’s Alex and I at the start:

About halfway through I was shown a video of Cher singing every part in West Side Story. At first I thought it was a joke. But no. No it was Cher. Singing every part. I can’t work out if it’s brilliant or horrifying. Here’s a link so you can judge for yourself. You probably won’t manage the full 12 minutes. But you’ll get enough to wonder. Although you’ll never unsee it.

I kind of missed a trick by not drinking this evening. Tonight is the only official “last bender” in the Christian calendar. Pancake Day. It’s the last day before Lent. You confess your sins and you get shriven. Then you eat everything left in the house via pancakes before hitting your 40 day and 40 night fast in honour of Jesus in the wilderness and those locusts. Or was that John the Baptist? Easter is on April Fools Day this year. That would be a problem: “Jesus is risen! Ha ha no just joking.” The mathematicians among you will be shouting “But that’s 46 days away, not 40!” It is indeed. But it’s still only 40 days. How does that work? Well, you don’t have to fast on Sundays. I can get behind that. Me with my fundamentalist all or nothing take on self-denial. By those rules I can have a bottle of gin every weekend.

But the myth of Jesus’ temptation is a valuable one to contemplate. The meat of it is something we can all understand through our varied prisms. Three major temptations. We all have them to a lesser or greater extent in this lifelong war with ourselves.

First, hedonism. Satisfy the desires of the flesh immediately. Make bread out of a stone. Have one last bender. “Dry January doesn’t count for press night!” “Sundays don’t count in Lent!” Consumption of whatever you desire now, with no thought to the wider context. Pancakes! It’s a trap. If we never get a handle on our immediate desires we sink deeper and deeper into ourselves, and start to confuse consumption for contentment. Then we wonder why it is so fleeting and consume more and more. It’s a hard one to ignore as the economy needs it.

Second, egoism. “If you jump off this building, angels have to catch you because you’re important. Test it out.” “If I put loads of hashtags in my blog, more people will read it.” “I think my art/work is better than that person’s, therefore I’m a better person.” “I did a thing or knew a person that this person didn’t, so I’m an expert.” Me at the centre. I’m important/special/set apart. Another trap. We are so much less without our community. Everyone has something you can learn, even if (maybe especially if) their priorities and worldviews directly conflict with ours.

Finally materialism. “Worship me and you can be king of the world.” “I wouldn’t change if I won the lottery.” But would you? If you make a lot of money, win a lot, inherit a lot, would you start to conflate your wealth with your worth? Would you start to isolate from those less fortunate, thinking them somehow lesser? You see it happen a lot.

Lent is a time where Christians and all of us can look at these three traps. Through the simple measure of denying ourselves something we like (booze, Facebook, ostentatious shows of wealth?) we can connect to a deeper sense of ourselves, and find a deeper peace inside ourselves. Then at the end of it we can choose whether we really need that habit as much as we felt we did at the start when the immediate craving was still sharp.

Happy lenting people. I’m going to decide tomorrow morning what fuckery I do to myself. It might be sugar. It might be coffee. It might be social media outside of this blog. It might be all three. Or none. Or sex. That would be the easy one. But it’s sexy February.

My living room is full of clothes. I’m back on the sofa tonight. Got to pack for a week in Manchester, but right now I’m stuffed with reduced pork medallions and gravy, and Darren and I are eating ginger biscuits. Rock and fucking Roll, sexy February.

I managed to persuade my bank to return the deposit from the van hire early, and then timed my trip to Tesco perfectly to get all the reduced stuff. Hence the (relative) feast. There’s a .76p packet of bacon for breakfast too. If the reduced Gods hadn’t been kind, the other option for dinner would’ve been too stark to contemplate. Darren woke me up this morning throwing two Pot Noodles onto the bed. “I nicked these at work for ya.” he said. My mouth said “Thanks.” My stomach wasn’t so sure. Although I did a few days on weetabix with hot water and Heinz Baked Beans and still made it to work. Pot Noodles have got PEAS in them. They’re practically a vegetable, no?

Today was another rehearsal day. I walked in through the sunshine. Such a beautiful morning. There were the stems of daffodils poking up in the morning light in St James’ Park. Soon now they’ll bloom, colour will come back, and the cold will be banished again.

I’m still loving this process, which is why I’m not too concerned about coming into rehearsal a lot more than I expected to. James has a great director’s eye, and the young actors are ace. Maria is a Welsh redhead with brilliant attack. Tony is a Scotsman with such an upper body that his movement is restricted, but a gorgeous tenor. They look right together. And she climbs down from the balcony to him, which I love. The songs are taking shape too. There’s some real beauty in this. It’s a funny sparky lot. Lots of different accents body types and backgrounds, but everyone competent. And right now it’s just a load of people in their own clothes in a room. Up in Manchester they’re building a set and sourcing loads of costumes and props. Next week we’ll be airlifted into context with all the production and lights and colours. There’s always a physical shift when I first wear my costume and put the shoes on etc. In my process it informs the movement patterns of the guy I’m playing. Clothes tend to want to be worn a certain way. I’m looking forward to finding out how I can combine this strange messy psycho with whatever they give me to wear.

I took this photo while they were rehearsing “Somewhere.” It’s an illustration of the difference between rehearsal and performance. The song is glorious, and there won’t be a dry eye in the house. But a rehearsal snap out of context is just a load of people standing in a room while more people sit behind a table thinking, or writing notes and emails.

To be honest, I wrote some good emails too, around the time I took that crap picture. Even got a reply. That’s unheard of!! Sexy February continues…

There’s something about a roast chicken. My mum and my grandmother used to do them all the time. I still have their carving knives and their chopping board. They always used to have wishbones drying in the kitchen, waiting for the right wish. If I were to give up meat I think roast chicken would be the last thing to go. Making it at home I’ve got to an almost ritualistic simplicity where I smash it all out and it all tastes divine. I sometimes even make it when I’m home alone. I know it’s not going to go to waste. Today I didn’t have to do anything though, which was sheer bloody luxury.

Flavia roasted one round hers. She wouldn’t even let me do the washing up, so I just chilled out with Ivo and played with his Transformers. He’s into the 1980’s cartoons, and has a toy of “Blaster” who turns himself into – among other things – an eighties style ghetto blaster, complete with removable cassette. Hours were spent incompetently trying to transform him into his various guises. It’s a brilliantly articulated toy, but you need a degree in engineering.

We all had a very civilised lunch around the table, and then decanted into the living room to watch a movie. “Oh look, Lalaland is on Netflix,” said Flaves. She’s about to go out there. I was thinking I would try to get back out myself for a short time around mid February, but it’s not looking practical for me this year. We put it on. Watching that hymn to that crazy city made me feel the distance. I miss the rescue dogs I lived with, I miss Mark and Laural, the Guildhall and Factory crowd out there, the Brits in LA, the people I met on my little strange excursion.

I could use some of that positivity. Some of that sunshine. Some of that vitamin e. The end of the film is terrifically sad, to me. About all the things that could have been in love. It always makes me weepy, and Flavia was much the same. Ivo picked up on it and started howling. Eventually his mum got to speak and asked him what was wrong. He explained: “I’m SAD. AND I DON’T. KNOW. WHY.” Welcome to February, kiddo. Welcome to February. It does that unless you force yourself to reframe it as sexy.

Darren just got home from working security at a rave. We’ve both been those mashed up kids in the past, but right now the idea of it doesn’t appeal to either of us. “I was looking at them chewing their own faces off and I just thought ‘Thank God I’m on this side of the fence”.

We found ourselves talking about loss. We’ve both lost parents which is hard enough, even if sometimes you inherit a chopping board. But Darren lost a kid, and recently too. I can’t imagine. The tendrils of a loss like that must go deep. I’m glad he’s in my room for the moment. This flat has a peace where people can reconstruct themselves. And Brian is in Essex so I get his bed…

 

I’ve been reading a lot about “smart motorways” lately. The way they’re being touted, they’re motorways where you will always be caught speeding. “If you drive over 70mph you WILL be caught.” I was driving into the dawn this morning on the M6 and M1, and it felt much like business as usual. People were still passing me at 80. All it meant was that I had a little less focus on the road in front and a little more focus on the sides of the road and my speedometer, looking for those cheeky dangerous little revenue generators and making sure that the numbers were in my favour and I hadn’t drifted over 70 in tune with the empty road. It definitely keeps you alert. No chance of dozing where the consequences of a slip are a fine and an interminable course where some chinless wonder earns his crust by showing you pictures of dead people. There are a lot of cameras now, all lined up on the side of bridges, feathering the nest, buying us guns with the careless-dollar.

It was a beautiful dawn. I only rarely see the dawn but there it was, unavoidable, directly in front of me for a moment as I came through the midlands. I was spanking it to get back to the van hire in time to return it, but still had time to say “oooh”, before flooring it and turning south. (Obviously I stayed within the legal limit at all times. Rules and laws are very important to me. Safety > people.) I arrived at the van hire two minutes before the deadline and the guy was waiting outside – he needed to pass it immediately to someone else. Charlotte fed me curry last night and I didn’t open the windows on the way home. Whoever rented that van, I’m sorry. Perhaps that’s the reason they haven’t refunded my bloody £100 deposit yet. I gassed their next customers.

I’m lucky to have the friends I’ve got. I get great company AND good food. Farty dinner via Charlotte as well as a warm bed, company and kindness. Tasty breakfast via Emma, as well as cash for food, brilliant company and laughter. I tried to use my last tenner to pay but she wouldn’t let me. Instead she bought me sweeties and thrust some cash into my hands. Damn. I’ll do the same for her before long. That’s how it goes around in this fellowship. When we’re working we help out the ones who aren’t. All these beautiful stubborn low-income kind people with more empathy than acumen. Then I got home, and Brian bought the bits for and made a chili that’ll last a few days.

Now I’m hoping it rains itself out by Monday, as I’ll be back on Ahmeda, my lovely orange bike. Next week, around rehearsal for West Side Story I’ll be talking to a financial advisor (if they’ll take deferred payment) about trying to sort out my whole twisted mess of a situation once and for all. For now I’ll just enjoy this chili, drink no alcohol, watch crap films and hope that I don’t get any letters in the post about this morning.

I’ve been driving plants. They can’t drive themselves you see.

The morning witnessed me shouting “Are you the gardener?” through a fence into a private garden in Belgravia. She was the gardener, but she had no intention of letting me in. In virtually no time I was surrounded by gardeners. “I’m here to take a camelia,” I tried. “You’re not taking anything from this garden.”

Thankfully a terrifically pompous woman arrived just as I was about to start swearing, and parted the barricade just by naming their names. Before long I was staring at a plant as big as I am, while she folded her arms. “That’s the one. The biggest one,” she said, distancing herself physically from it. “Perhaps you should borrow a wheelbarrow?” She ventured.

15 minutes later, with mud all over my hands and a cut on my knee, the bastard thing was lying on its side in the back of a transit van. Then I swung by home to pick up Tom.

Tom – the mad fool – had accepted a lift back to Manchester with me . Via Sherborne! I suspected I might need help carrying, and I knew I’d need company. The two of us departed, upbeat and singing. The day was bright and sharp. We played car-games and the time flew by. Usually when I’m driving long distance I listen to Radio 4 and go into a thought tunnel. So his company was very much welcomed, and when I arrived in Sherborne I realised how lucky I was to have him. There is no way on God’s earth I’d have got those plants into the van without his help. I’d have had to flag down a car and bribe someone a tenner.

The satnav then decided that the best route to Manchester was through Bristol City Centre in rush hour. With our van of camelias we started to go batshit crazy. Before long we were inventing characters and swearing at length at each other in them. The time flew by as a result, unlike the scenery. By the time we were out of the city it was dark and I was 4-0 up at Horse, but down at I-Spy. We made it to Manchester without incident, and still just about hanging onto our whatever sanity we had when we started.

The plants I was carrying were planted by Charlotte’s mother – (she’s my cousin outlaw). Periwinkles, snowdrops, love in the mist, a palm and, of course, that damned camelia. I dropped off Tom and eventually staggered up her driveway. Somehow we unloaded the fuckers. Now she has them to remember her mother by. What a glorious organic legacy. Life after death. The snowdrops were in bloom too.

And that is the extent of my day. A little bit of shouting, a spot of heavy lifting, hours and hours of driving in good company, and occasionally a little sad thought. Now I’m sitting post prandial on a sofa with a dog and a camomile tea. Spring is coming. Good old Spring. Life and death and daffodils.

I’m out at 5am to get the bloody van back in time. I’m bad enough in the morning without having to drive 4 hours. I’ll be swearing to myself all the way home in all sorts of different voices, and there’ll be no Tom to swear back. It’s almost eleven. Sleep.

I’m not feeling it tonight. I’m home now. Brian is away so I’ve got his bed. I’m about to have a bath and get in it. I’m feeling very sober, in the sense that I’m remembering why I drink. It’s this ineffable sense of malaise that creeps up on me and makes me feel raw. And which is completely impossible to maintain when Pickle leaps onto your belly and starts burrowing and purring, as she just has. Now she’s bumping my phone with her nose. She wants attention. I love the bond and trust that we’ve built, this mad tiny cat and I. If she hadn’t blindsided her way in, my life would be the poorer for it. She won’t let me feel sad.

I just showed Darren where her food is kept and talked him through her simple needs for when I’m in Manchester. It’s great that the flat is always full of people. She is much quicker at making friends these days than the scaredy cat we first met. I’m relieved knowing there’s an army of people waiting in the wings to look after her. She came straight to Darren. She’ll still hide if there’s a dog or a child though, which is a shame as there’s a dog in my block that could do with a bit more company. His owner is rushing around sorting things out and can’t get to him all the time so when things are slow I get to walk a dog as well as have a cat. But if I were to bring him up here to my flat – I tried once – all hell would break loose. The hound immediately polished off Pickle’s breakfast, which is no way to make friends. After that she just stared with utter distaste at him, every hair erect, hiding in all manner of out of reach places and occasionally jumping out of her skin, knocking everything over and yowling.

Animals are great though. Both the dog and  the cat are perfectly happy with food and water, a bit of exercise, a soft place to sleep and the occasional cuddle. And here am I feeling all upset and angry because I’ve had a (half expected) knockback. I’ve got food and water. I had some exercise today. I’ve got Brian’s bed. And I get to cuddle the cat. Even when I’m trying to write my blog. Or sleep. Or work. Or go to the loo. Yep, she muscles in if I haven’t closed the door properly.

Pets definitely help us remember that all this shit is transitory. Their simple needs throw into relief our complicated desires. Their example is particularly valuable in these days of way too much choice. They eat the same crap every day. Although some people do too. Tom was walking the dog this morning when he saw a Macdonald’s delivery to a house in Ormond Gate. It was a glorious crisp morning. There’s a Macdonald’s ten minutes walk from the house. And Macdonald’s is worse than horse poo. He said, “Who are these people that live in one of the most expensive parts of London, eat Macdonald’s and won’t even leave the house to get it?”

I’m getting distracted and it’s late. I’ve written some words in order here so the obligation is discharged. I haven’t really managed to put a shape on it, but Pickle can stare at a wall for half an hour without moving so I reckon I can occasionally send out a half-arsed blog. Especially with a long day tomorrow.

It was the first run of Act 1 of West Side Story today. I could’ve written about that. It was ace. But instead I got sad and frustrated and then the cat jumped on me. Here’s a picture of the dog. Goodnight. Zzzzz