Even as my ability to dump thoughts into words improves, so the technology I’m dumping into devolves. When I started this I was writing two handed into an iPad Air. Oh those heady days. The screen is long smashed, and until I can pay the absurd repair fee it’ll stay that way. I taught myself to dump into a mobile phone screen instead. I never thought it was possible to express complicated thoughts into a mobile. Turns out it is, to an extent, so long as you don’t need to edit, and you have Google keyboard swipe function.
Editing on my last mobile was extremely fiddly. If I’d made a typo or I wanted to rejig a sentence it took time and work.
Now I’m writing on a horrible horrible brick phone that barely has the memory to attach photographs and takes half an hour to do anything. It’s designed for hitting people over the head. It’s a paperweight with a screen. There’s no editing here, kids. Well, there’s some. But if you try to insert text the text after it turns to gobbledygook so I just have to keep rolling forwards and trust that the finished product will make sense.
If I hit the end of the day and then try to play catch-up after a few beers it’s a disaster. So I’m getting this done before I meet my friend Helen in case we think that wine is a good idea.
So – constant reader (thank you so much you maniac) – you can understand why recently I’ve been putting up unedited stream of consciousness. First world problems, eh? You get this crap fresh minted.
(Literally as I write this standing on the street in Waterloo the unassuming man that just walked past me has started vomiting loudly and angrily onto the pavement, perhaps in response to what I just wrote. It’s alcohol spew I think, despite it not being 9pm yet on a Friday. It’s like he’s trying to shout the word “kayak” underwater. Nonetheless I’m going to get a drink. Friday night etc)
If I will seek a lifestyle where I can gladly take a week of reading tarot in a caravan in central London, and then impulse into a pub on my own, I can’t complain when I can’t afford to fix my iPad. Especially considering I’m lucky enough to have the bloody thing in the first place (thank you Fitzrovia Radio Hour).
I’ve been visiting lovely people all day. I started with a friend who has recently been on a three day retreat with some Amazonian plant medicine. It was great to see her afterwards, as it feels like she’s turned a corner, which is exactly what the medicine is supposed to do. We had expensive lunch in Soho (she’s still on a very prescriptive vegan ++ diet) and damn it was good. We were upstairs in Neal’s Yard.
Now I’m in a Friday night pub. Men are shouting. Really really shouting. It’s only twenty past nine on a Friday. So many people so desperate for it all to be over, their shit week, so they can obliterate themselves and shout and puke and smash things and then start all over again.
I just wish it was easier to sit in public in this town when it’s cold and not spend money. The Siberian wind is blowing in. That man’s vomit is probably going to freeze overnight. I’m going to regret leaving the house in my leather jacket only. But my friend has just messaged to say she’s coming in a sec. Roll on a better telephone. (June, or September if I’m jumping ship from Vodafone)
Meanwhile, two espresso martinis in The Young Vic. Boom.