My nose is streaming. My top lip is red raw. I feel a bit run down and coldy. I look like I’ve got a Mister Tumble sized coke habit. All the nasty leaky wetness and none of the expense and arrogant shouting. I’ve been through a box of Kleenex in the last 24 hours. I guess that’s what was brewing when I felt like bollocks yesterday. Have I been overworking myself, perhaps? HOW DARE YOU SIR.
I like the variety. I NEED the variety. Not that I have ADHD or anything oh no goodness no look over there. But… Sometimes it’s nice just to know what the living fuck is about to happen.
I’m in Brighton. There’s a cat cleaning its arse at my feet. She too has been out of sorts after unpredictable things happened. Lou went to Marseilles at short notice to emergencymake an entire company worth of costumes in three days. We’ve both had a busy patch. We both got through it thinking of the money. Better by far to have it coming in on these cold days where the little meter in the kitchen has monthly looking numbers at the end of the week. Lou landed at Heathrow this evening mid train strike and I’m unexpectedly in Brighton as she needed a chauffeur or a million pounds for a taxi. These festive strikes… I get it, we wouldn’t have holidays if it wasn’t for the unions, and the people wearing the hat are contemptible villains without a speck of statesmanship, common sense or kindness. They likely all look like me right now as well for different reasons. So yeah, we have to protest. We have to highlight their incompetent apathetic mismanagement and greed. It’s not right to blame the protestors. But it’s annoying. At least I’ve got a car. It means I get a bonus night with Lou.
I’m here for one night. The cat is displaced from her bed territory, so she’s surveying us as we drop off, and slowly drawing her plans against us. She’ll wait until I’m sleeping and then make her move. She bit my foot earlier. She’s a poppet, but she can turn on a dime and be a committed and lethal attack cat.