I’m aware on an intellectual level that I’m going away for a month at the end of this week. But it isn’t quite real yet.
My passport failed in a delivery so I’m gonna need to get that successfully sent to me before it’s too late. I need to put clean clothes and useful things into a suitcase. It would be to my benefit to also make the flat habitable. Somebody is gonna have to water the flowers.
Today though I just enjoyed being at home surrounded by all my distractions, distracting myself with them. It’s something of a novelty these days to just be here. It’s usually been a dosshouse on the way to Hampstead or Brighton. I rather enjoyed just stopping here for a day. I didn’t do as much as I’d planned. But I made a start.
Jack came over in the evening. We’re about to spend a whole damn month together but right now we aren’t fed up of one another. We truck along very well together really so Jersey is likely to be fun. He came to drop off his guitar and deliver a little bag of coats that are too big to fit into the airplane. I’m driving over on the ferry. Makes more sense to have a car in Jersey. Petrol is likely to be a bit cheaper too. I’ll have to remember to pack them into the car on Friday.
I’m tired out. I hit a wall when Jack was here. I walked him most of the way to the tube station just so the cold air could slap me awake a little, but a day of idleness frequently has the effect of making one tired. I’ll have to be busier tomorrow. Also though I just think I’m not used to being sociable. It tires me out. I’ll have to flex those muscles a great deal in the weeks to come.
The weather has snapped to cold though. This is going to be an expensive winter, with the fuel prices rocketing and all the overburdened berry trees predicting deep cold. I have a feeling we are all going to be shocked by a snap to freezing. And it also feels like there’s a something Covid related approaching. God I hope it’s not another lockdown. Hopefully I’ll have got to Jersey before anything goes down… We have had enough disaster, in my industries more than many. I really hope we get Christmas…
In a little square in Walsall, just opposite a great big print shop and surrounded by chicken shops and poured concrete, you will find The Walsall New Art Gallery. It’s built with a lot of wood. Noddy Holder is the voice of the glass lift. We drove up to see Lou’s parents, and stopped there quickly on the way. Lou swarmed in, familiar. I followed in her wake.
It’s an incredible gallery, perhaps more so for the location. Right now it’s still pretty run down in that area. The gallery feels like something they have plonked there in the hope that it will attract regeneration.
The collection is tastefully displayed, and has a range of unusual things. Minoan vases rub up against Roman statues and Egyptian sculptures. There are familiar names aplenty here. Van Gogh and Rembrandt and Degas and Picasso. More modern works, and more ancient. The mother of somebody connected with the museum had accumulated a huge body of her own very attractive work, squirreled away in her home until she died. These works were found by the family and deemed good enough to display. They are. She’s got a posthumous exhibition. We were drawn to them. But we came here for a reason. We are looking for Satan.
Blake painted Lucifer in his original glory, and Lou remembers being struck by the painting. She used to come here a great deal. Indeed, one of the guys at reception recognises her and immediately slips into familiar conversation. “You live in Brighton, right?” She was always particularly struck by Blake’s rendition of the fallen angel prior to the fall. But we can’t find him.”
We are aware that looking for Satan might be misconstrued, but we ask anyway. “Do you know if Satan by William Blake is on display here?” The reception hasn’t had an enquiry for a while – there aren’t many people in here. “Are you a fan of Blake or of Satan?” they ask. “We’re a fan of Blake… We aren’t Satanists,” we assure them smiling. Disappearing downstairs to check the records, pitched so we can only just hear it, the ginger receptionists throws us “Well, I’m a satanist.”
Lucifer isn’t here anymore. He was on loan. We find the frontispiece to The Book of Job, and a lovely little Christ the Carpenter, but Satan in his Original Glory is somewhere else. Slippery bugger.
Turns out he’s in The Tate, just down the road from mine. We’ll have to try again next time Lou is in town, whenever that might be. January?
We visited the parents and spun back home. I feel like I’ve been driving forever now. Important though, to visit family when you’ve got them. I’m off to Jersey so barring long and bothersome expensive trains, that’ll be the last time Lou gets to see them until after Christmas.
Charles II was the one who switched the wood at Leonardslee into private ownership. It was a gift to his doctor. To this day it has not been built on much, and most of the owners have chosen to keep it open to the public and monetise it that way. It’s a sprawling garden now, with a little Michelin starred restaurant in the grounds (Interlude) and a little house of Portland Stone, and loads of space.
The gardens are spread out through a valley where in the 1700’s they were smelting iron. They dug and diverted a ton of reservoirs to make certain there was always waterflow to feed the mills. Now the industry is long gone, the aftermath is great fertility. The true beauty was added over decades at the end of the 19th Century by Sir Edmund Loder, free and rich and curious. He was into botany. He bred rhododendrons, creating many new and bright species that still thrive in the gardens. He chucked in a few sequoias and maples and eucalyptus and what have you. Then he shipped over tons of animals too because you know it’s the 1800’s, let’s just let them all run wild. Gazelles? Sure bring ’em in. Wallabies? God bless the little tykes. Beavers? Yep. We used to have them here anyway. Japanese deer? Let’s chase them! Maybe we can ride the gazelles? Or the kangaroos.
A big old film crew came to these incredible grounds in 1946, using Loder’s inspired and colorful botanical alchemy to make a corner of Sussex look like the Himalayas. They would have had to make sure the wallabies were out of shot. Black Narcissus was filmed here on location for the jungles, as well as at Pinewood. They won some academy awards for it, and it looks beautiful and convincing. There’s the space for all the winnebagos you’d need. I could imagine being on location there for a few weeks and having a lovely time. And maybe the absurdly tiny horse ridden very seriously by David Farrar is part of the eccentric Leonardslee menagerie.
It’s a bright, large, sprawling valley, semi wild, semi tamed. Good mushrooms. Good light. Most of the unusual animals are gone now though, taken to zoos. The gardens are only just recovering from atrocious neglect…
Some guy bought the place lock stock and barrel for just £5 million in 2010. He wanted to “preserve his anonymity”, so he locked the gates, got rid of most of the unusual animal denizens, and started to let the whole place go to seed. It’s hard to even find his name. Reading between the lines and digging on the internet I get the sense he barely showed up. He was a doctor from The Lebanon. I don’t think he really cared for the place at all.
The wallabies couldn’t be flushed out and sold to the zoo. They like it at Leonardslee and they are small enough to hide. They went feral. There’s a good breeding colony now in the grounds, found after mister private doctor gitface either karked it or flogged the place. The unusual deer are gone, but they got rid of the gazelles.
It’s now owned by a South African Hospitality Company. Somebody with vision managed to get it back from that idiot. They’ve done well, the saffers, to get a Michelin starred restaurant in there immediately. When I get my next big movie role maybe I’ll take you all there for a blob of something and a biscuit.
The South Africans have reopened the gardens (not cheap though. £13.50 I think. Although it’s .50p cheaper than the national trust).
There’s a vast wintery sound and light show called Leonardslee Illuminated happening in the evenings coming up for £18 smackers and I saw them building it and it looks incredible – THE MOON! (With earth behind). I’d go if I wasn’t in Jersey.
Lou and I had a very happy autumnal potter in the gorgeous cold. The hospitality company have brought in their mate the sculptor, so the grounds are filled with ambitious sculptures some of which have absolute poppycock written on the plaques. It’s kind of cute until you think of how much he probably sells these things for. I found myself inventing his character based on the evidence of his work. Some big blonde South African lad who stumbled into spirituality late in life when he was rich – all muscles and space, throwing out huge works of resin and stone and writing whatever the fuck came into his head next to them. A big man who has learnt to weep. I kept on getting annoyed with him but my monologues to Lou kept me entertained.
I loved Leonardslee. It’ll be amazing in Spring, although of course it’ll be much more crowded when the rhododendrons are all in bloom. The colours will be incredible. God… maybe I’m getting old, but I had a lovely time wandering around a garden on a Monday. Actor’s weekend.
What a lovely escape. This evening I woke up and poured hot coffee all over my friend’s kitchen by the simple device of not screwing on the aeropress filter thing properly. I was too busy being swept up in the wonder of the device itself. I suspect I’ll have to buy one now I know how to operate it. My little red stovetop espresso bubbler makes a predicable morning brew but I have to burn gas to heat it and whatever metal its made of seems to be slowly flaking away cup by cup and going through my digestive system with the caffeine payload.
The plan was to play more games, but a bright autumn morning and an enthusiastic doggeh and a hangover made for a fine walk down The Ocean at the End of the Lane to The English Channel. Portsmouth council have indeed named a road after their native authors lovely strange nostalgic novel. Spread out at the end of it you have shells and pebbles falling quickly into the wash, and little white buildings slowly making you good drinks to enjoy despite the windchill. We strolled and talked and skimmed stones. We sat and talked and I had Chai Latte with bourbon and I realised I’m gonna need a windproof for December in Jersey.
The morning was for talkings and catching up without the frame of a game. So nice to see these lads again.
Then in the afternoon I thought I’d catch a chance to see my nephew. By fortune he has ended up in the same bit of Portsmouth. He’s nineteen and his Hall of Residence for university overlooks the sea just down from where I spent the night. I took him for a quick Sunday lunch to catch him before Christmas. We did a frantic news exchange. First year at uni, first term. He’s barely scratched the surface but there’s a long long way to go. I tried to provide an ear while scoffing roast beef. Brighton was calling though, and the drive back before I got too sleepy.
More coffee, without more bourbon, and hopefully the lunch and the time had absorbed the units. I was sleepy though and drove at an unaccustomed slow pace until I got back down the coast to the pebbles of Brighton. Now I’m in the bath. It’s cold everywhere else so I’m going to stay here as long as I possibly can. I might even wash myself. It seems things are always pulling me to the sea these days. “The sea is in your blood,” my grandmother would tell me. Seems it’s calling. The Thames is ok, but I’ve had some shit from it over the years. Let’s sea…
Dan and John were at school with me. I don’t see my old school friends very often, to be honest, so it can be pleasant if I do it on purpose. I sat next to one ex school-person in a cafe by mistake over a year ago and listened to him lie to his earnest and hardworking employee. I sat next to him by sheer coincidence. He had been a weasel at school. No evolution for him, and it’s been decades. He’s worse now than he was then and be was bad back then. “You are the future captains of industry.” Gak. He has a small degree of power over people’s happiness on a larger scale now, but he has no perspective or empathy, as is encouraged in such institutions. ’twas ever thus.
These guys were alright at that place somehow. They still are. I don’t see them very often as we are clambering all over the big scary world together. We are absolute nerds, always have been, fine. I have no shame about that. Surrounded by sociopaths, we found joy in things like Dungeons and Dragons, more or less precisely because they were dismissed as uncool by the humans we disliked.
Dan went away to Canada and jumped from city to city, chasing his work in computer games. John stayed in London and got a proper job. I kept dreaming the impossible dream. A wandering bard.
Now, a hundred years later, Dan has returned and ended up in Portsmouth. He’s been here a while. Today, three old schoolfriends gathered to geek out, tolerated by Jules, Dan’s wife and an old mate, mostly avoiding the vast amounts of geek. If there was a geekter scale we would be sending out some dangerous emanations.
Game 1: Fortune and Glory. It’s an Indiana Jones game without the copyright and with too many pieces. Dan had 3D printed special trays to hold and help make sense of the multiplicity of counters and cards etc. There’s much that doesn’t make any sense in this game. The fact that the main currency of the game is glory – you use glory to buy equipment – and the win condition is fortune, which you just accumulate and can’t spend. We were up against The Nazis in a cooperative game. We thought it would probably take all day. It took four hours, which was much much shorter than wet anticipated. We won. Duke Dudley played his part in outsmarting the goose-stepping hordes. We put all the 3D printed trays back carefully in the box. It took almost as long to pack the box as it had taken to play the game. By the time we were done it was mid afternoon.
Megacity Oceania came next. I can heartily recommend that game. It’s a strange game about city building, there’s always something to do, and there’s a good creative element even though it’s not conducive to winning. I made some beautiful structures that I was proud of. “We’ve both done engineering degrees, and Al is making more robust structures,” Dan says at one point, just before one of mine fell down. I ended up a long way from winning though as I overlooked the need for tactics. I was too busy going for aesthetics. I enjoyed myself.
Moon Adventure came next. We all died on the moon in an electrical stormm in short order.
Finally “Roll Player”. Fantasy based dice jigging strangeness. Dan was a bard. He won. “It’s not easy to win as a bard. You actually have to have much higher stats than most other classes to be a successful bard,” Dan says to me. “It would’ve been easier as something else.” “You don’t say,” I remark mildly, but I don’t think he hears the nuance. “Yeah, look – he needs to get 18 in charisma!” I get shown the card.
I ram it home. “I always thought being a bard would require no particular stats – they just have to want to perform, no? If it’s hard for bards maybe they should just get a proper job.”
A glorious stupid geeky day. The years fell away, the strange perspective differences, the things that brought us together, the things that helped us notice we had different priorities and tastes and needs.
Now I’m down in the living room on an inflatable mattress. John is in the spare room. I’m gonna get jumped by the dog at dawn, but they’re right to put me here – I’m perfectly comfortable dossing down under almost any circumstance. Had I been given the choice I would’ve likely chosen it.
“You need 18 charisma to win as a bard…” I’m working on the win. Might need to get some lucky rolls. For now though I’m getting stuck in with my old mates. Nice to change the pace from time to time. And we were fed beautifully! Omnomnom. And likely given too much wine hence the clumsy analogy.
After another hour and a half long appointment at the dentist I wasn’t certain if Lou was gonna have the energy for any adventures, but the changing seasons provided enough bait to get us out. It’s very easy to get to the Great Wood at Stanmer if you have a car, even though Brighton City Council have finally caught on that they can make money by charging people to park nearby. A year ago all the car parks were free – and most of them didn’t exist. Now people have come with diggers and they all carry a price tag. We used to throw the car up on a verge just by the derelict house, then wander past the church and see if juicy Simon was there for apple juice before striking up the hill. Now we either have to get into an expensive car park just down from the refurbished house, or – much better – to go to a reasonably priced car park a bit further away and then walk through the woodland to the same places.
I’ve been quietly aware of it even in London, but these are the days of spectacular autumn, upon us now fully. The wind and the rain have not yet been foul enough to strip the branches so we are at equilibrium. Half the leaves are still attached, dramatically dying like sopranos – shocking with their colour and beauty even as they take their long last gasp. The other half are down already, dead in the first act, coating the pathways and waiting.
Last time we went to these particular avenues it was the bluebells and the hope of a good summer to come. Today it was the leaves, so many, so bright as they go back to the soil. The cycle. And yes, the promise of a winter very soon now. Maybe snow. The cold. A time of rest, and nurture. Or panto.
I’ll be in Jersey so soon, so soon. God. Before I know it. Not quite panto but a Christmas show. And I’ll be there until after Christmas. I’d better make sure I’ve packed or everything’ll sneak up on me again and I’ll do my usual thing of throwing everything close to me into a case at random and arriving with no socks.
For today though, Stanmer and the woodland.
Not many people about. It was a damp afternoon, and a working day. I’m just done for the week and lucky enough to be self employed and knowing loosely how my next month will pan out. We just slowly walked through shocks of colour we found, enjoying one another’s company. Lou won’t be in Jersey for long so time with her is at a premium. I was supposed to be going to the theatre this evening but I gave away my ticket when I looked at my diary and realised how little we would be able to see each other before I leave. Better to wander around and exist alongside each other. It’s a full moon as well. I love the autumn. If only it wasn’t getting so damn cold.
And the miles are eaten up once more taking me back down to Brighton. I should have probably got a hybrid car instead of Bergman. All this talking about how we can be more aware of the things we destroy in our endless quest for convenience, and then I drive to the coast with a petrol engine. Maybe I should get the train. Even though it costs too much.
As I was driving down I was listening to Radio 4 reporting the train wreck of HS2 being abandoned to Leeds and I was curious. Everything on the news was focussing on the broken promises. Surely the story is rounder?
I remembered a story about the young architect who built the Natural History Museum. It was his first big commission. The planned interior and exterior was packed with beautiful featured ornate stonework and detail. Apparently the architect had an old friend who had been around the block with public works. “They’ll suddenly cut your budget two thirds of the way through the work. Build the beautiful detail first and store them in a warehouse. If the detail is not already made, it’s the thing you’ll end up having to cut.” He did so. They cut the budget. The museum lost a wing, but kept the exquisite ornament.
There’ll be people in Leeds kicking themselves that they didn’t insist that the work started in the North and went down South. There’s no way they wouldn’t link it to London that way. I’m sure the public officials and commuters of Leeds feel hung out to dry, but I’m also interested to know about the objectors and campaigners – the naturalists and the environmentalists. None of the visible news takes them in yet. None of the talking heads on BBC 4 today said “Well, there’s a stretch of extremely valuable ancient woodland that we have been trying to preserve, and we are over the moon about the plans being dropped.” Swampy is in a tunnel somewhere, dancing around with joy. If the news wanted to put a positive spin on things it would likely be easy to find a level headed naturalist to take that standpoint. Despite the destruction of so much nature already, at least a pocket of the north will keep some of its long lived forestry, at the cost of another 20 minutes journey time for those people who get sucked back into the “Live Work Die” model that we are encouraged to campaign for.
At least the negative spin to this news proves that the thing your rabid friend disparages as “the main stream media” is turning on this slippery bunch of salesmen. They’ve been astonishingly forgiving as we’ve watched them take so much, chip by chip by chip. It seems the worm is turning. The papers are never going to start cheering for Starmer, but I think they’ll start baying for Boris’s blood soon.
My work for the power network is done now. It’s done. Hooray. The last session was sadly a pretty disengaged bunch, but I feel like I did as good a job as I could under the circumstances, and with the material I had. Sixteen is a terrible age to be. It’s hard to be interested in anything. I just hope they don’t all end up flipping burgers.
Digging tunnels… There’s interesting stuff down there. They found important Roman remains while excavating a graveyard, that would never have been found otherwise. And presumably they also demolished the Norman Church. “Hey everybody, look at these statues!” *Bang*
I can really feel the approach of winter. Hard to believe I’ll be in Jersey again soon, and for the whole of December. I’m kind of looking forward to it. It’ll be a good chance to get the heck out of this town. There’s a lot of weird energy floating around here.
My day off was not as restful as I had dreamt. I’ve been helping a friend in need, but within that I’ve kind of forgotten to take my own needs into account. Right now I’m about an hour away from my flat full of yummy food and I’m starving but too pragmatic to order food here when I have a butcher-cut ribeye in the fridge with a load of asparagus and new potatoes. It’s half six. It’s a relatively tense situation I find myself in, and I have a low level of anxiety because of it. That tightness around the chest. Plus I’m hungry which is probably why I’ve got slight shakes. Nervous energy and the fact I’ve eaten nothing but a croissant all day.
Looking out the window helps though. The colours are momentarily deep and rich on the trees. Leaves are turning through orange and yellow and brown before collapsing into thick heaps in the roads. The skies are clear enough and the days are calm enough that even here in the concrete jungle I can find moments to connect to something a little older. I’d like to have gone out and walked in nature though. It’s been a very urban day. I’m looking forward to getting back down to Brighton tomorrow.
It’s odd though because my whole day has been taken up with something I can’t write about.
—
I went home. I cooked the most incredible steak, with new potatoes and raclette cheese, and asparagus. Then I got an unexpected and fascinating call from my godfather’s son. Then I watched the final two episodes of Squid Game. Then I had my customary hot bath. And now I’m feeling generally just much more relaxed than I was when I started writing today, even though a little spot of my youthful life has invaded. My godfather is a little black spot in my past. I’ve frequently wanted to connect with the fucker over the years. I lost my parents early and his influence in my life was formative. He gave me my strange geeky joy in doing the “manly” things. Hewing wood and gutting fish and carrying the thing and driving the machine. Perhaps we wouldn’t get on now, perhaps we would. I just would have preferred to have been part of the decision and not have just had contact severed by him while I was still a teenager, as soon as my dad was buried.
But that is an old old wound and I know it too well, far too well. I can luxuriate in the lovely things I’ve done this evening, and put my head down. Nice to spend a day helping a friend. It has deepened a friendship, and in the end that is more valuable than 20 lazy days of pampering at home.
Here’s my friend. When you’re sad, play dress-up!! I have some wonderful clothes now. Too many wonderful clothes. But wonderful nonetheless.
Up too early. Way too early for me. Normal for most of the civilised world. I slogged across London. Plumstead. Year 11. First class. I’m in there talking about jobs and electricity. Of course.
These poor young humans. They have been so confined recently. Sixteen to seventeen – surely that’s a time we all need to be unfettered. It’s complicated enough being in that weird changing body, filled with sudden hormones, flooded with malign marketing influences. Add to that the fact they have all been locked up in their homes and unable to even experiment with socialising, for a year and more. We are half back in the room now. I drive an hour to get there, and I’m glad to do it. The technology we have normalised now means that we can speak to a volunteer engineer working on a site miles away from us through Microsoft Teams. That’s a huge thing. I’m talking with teenagers about engineering, but I’m an actor so I’m largely having to follow a script. Today we had a 21 year old engineer talking through a screen to them, answering their questions live. I could really see her words landing on them. I’m a bloke in my forties. I can get myself to the school and I’m glad I can as I wouldn’t be running this on zoom. The engineer wouldn’t have been able to spare the time for the journey. This new mixed culture of working online as well as offline – it made a better opportunity for the students today. I can get behind that.
They are fun, these young people. They get bored or distracted so easily. They do random things to be able to think of themselves as mischievous. They want to see if they can find the edges. I kinda like the attack with which they openly approach pretending to be disinterested, and I enjoy trying to find ways to get over the front and maybe help them find a positive shift. The only huge frustration I have is how, culturally, a pretence of disinterest is considered to be more edgy than a pretence of interest. It feels like a negative cultural choice, wrapped up in “cool” and so forth. How did lack of energy get to be thought of as anything other than dumb?
I could never teach full time, no way. I tell these guys I’m more used to dealing with adults in the context of delivery than I am with people their age. This hopefully gives me a free pass when teacher hears me accidentally swear. But, working with these young people, from time to time, in a context where I’m not bound by the fuckery of bureaucracy, Yeah – sure – I’ll moonlight as a teacher. I see the other teachers giving so much, knowing so much, caring so much for other people’s angry offspring. And yeah, they’re angry coming up. They want to know about money first. They want to impact fast and hard while keeping hold of who they are. I really hope they manage it.
I was done by early afternoon, in both senses of the word The diary is empty tomorrow. I went shopping on the way home. To Waitrose. I ended up filling my basket with ridiculous items. I took half of them out again, but my lunch was the most ridiculous of them all.
Nom
I now have a well stocked kitchen, if you’re a Bavarian aristocrat. Cold meats and delicacies and unusual vegetables, and cheese and potatoes. I’ll feed myself healthily. Just as well really, as a friend came over for a surprise while my fat dinner was in the oven, and I had made so much food that I could easily give them half of it and still get happily replete on the leftovers. Now I’m settling in to another bit of Squid Game – God it’s dark, but it has me hooked. Night night.
The surprise is the price. It tells you it’s at Chelsea. You should be expecting high prices. But it’s six quid for a pint. Bastards. And they chased us down the road.
I met Fabian there. He lives in my block, renting one of the flats below me. We’ve been trying to connect for a while. He’s a Lancashire lad, 26 now, down from Manchester and trying to hit the acting game as best he can. He has a similar skin tone and eyes to me. He speaks with a Lancashire burr. I see common ground. This industry is darkly objective enough that I can see him hitting some of the same obstacles I hit. 2002: “You’re tanned to be posh”. I was told that by a gatekeeper. But … the industry has changed since then. The arbitrary barriers have moved, perhaps.
I try to advise him as best I can, but it’s hard because he’s set himself up against the idea of a training and I honestly think that my practical training at Guildhall is the only reason I’m still working. I was noisy, opinionated, clever, privileged and not beautiful. I needed skill and to learn kindness, because I was never going to inspire charity, and there weren’t any Spaceys hoping to help me into their show for perks.
Guildhall gave me contacts and perspective, even while it changed my confidence. But my confidence was Boris. Guildhall leveled me out. I can thank them for my humanity. They taught me to be a company member and to understand things out of my frame.
I still don’t work enough for my own happiness. But I would probably have pissed off a lot of people and pushed myself further to the weird edges if I hadn’t been taught kindness. I just have to try to remember to be compassionate – that just because MY journey was from intellectualism to instinct, it doesn’t mean that proudly left brain intensive humans are in some way under-evolved.
So yeah. I had a few expensive pints with a neighbour after a day of running workshops. Then I decided to switch on the telly. None of it worked. I honestly don’t think I’ve switched it in for three months. The PlayStation needed to be unplugged to communicate with the controllers. The remote was out of battery. Eventually I got it all plugged in and functioning. How many hours of swearing do the people who manufacture devices cause by purposefully selling them with the shortest possible cables? Still, I got it working, and I fell into Squid Game just because it annoys me when there’s something cultural that I am lost on.
I’ll probably go a bit deeper, before a reasonably early bed. More workshops tomorrow. Glad to be busy. I’m not as good at being busy as I was. But I’m clocking back on.
AlBarclay 