Pandaaabirch

It’s only early and I’m knackered again but it’s okay because I’m living where I work, and there are plenty of people out there who would question interpreting what I’ve done today as “work”.

“I don’t know how you keep it up,” said one grandfather today though, in a parting comment. Mister Panda, who was by then boiling in his head like a pot of moules, had been responsively playing with two very demanding small humans for far too long. At the time he was waving goodbye and very much looking forward to decapitating himself and panting like a hot dog. “I can do it cos there are no children at home,” I said. Little tykes can do their best when I’m being paid. I never have to worry about who is gonna deal with their crap in the morning. It won’t be me cos I never made them.

“This installation isn’t for children,” says the artist. It is huge and pink and full of toys. “PSYCHEDELIC CRÈCHE,” say all the young parents of Croydon who spent their teens going Badger Badger Badger Badger MUSHROOM MUSHROOM and are hoping they can leave the little tyke with the panda while they indulge in a remarkably good if pricey wine selection.

I’m at Birch (Selsdon). It’s great. I can’t afford to be a member but I would love to be. It is the latest of many lives that belong to this incredible house, longer than a train, lead windows and with some rooms still smellinh of tobacco smoke, squat against the weather and adapted by literally a thousand years of habitation and use into a creaking breathing mess of impracticality and hospitality. The staff are the most incredible asset they have here. Whoever selected this lot is a genius. Fun and diligent humorous humans, every one of them lively and sparky. It’s The House of St Barnabus again but out in Croydon. I’m very happy to be mister Panda with them. Amy says “We are gonna roll it out internationally!” I’ll take this madness to Korea. Mister Panda is a primal force. He knows things.

I’m knackered though. Lou is here. I had a long day in the head and then some wine. Quicker tomorrow. Then nothing for a few weeks. There are worse ways to earn a crust, believe me. It’s the perfect blend of hard and easy. And for the first time in a while I’m glad that the British summer has taken a temporary back foot. It means I’m only mildly poached, not pressure cooked.