Author: albarclay

Many years ago I went to Wales to stay with my girlfriend’s father. He had a lovely house but more than half of it was filled with boxes. Crap that had accumulated over decades. Things with cash value. Things with aesthetic value. Things with no value at all. Things. We had a casual conversation about making pasta, and he said “I’ve got a pasta maker!” Then he vanished into the room full of boxes and rummaged around for ages before emerging triumphantly with said pasta maker. She and I had both hoped we might be able to make him understand how much of his space he was wasting by filling half of his home with boxes, but there he was, demonstrably making pasta with a pasta machine he surely never used before or since. But that evening it was justification for a lifetime of hoarding.

I understand the psychological root of hoarding. If I had a pasta maker, I would know that currently I could never justify the expense of buying one. So if my daughter and her goofy boyfriend wondered how pasta is made and I’d sent the thing to a charity shop I’d have a momentary regret at not being able to provide. But that’s all it would be. Momentary regret.

But  she and I said to each other at the time – that possibility is not worth sacrificing so much space for. “You see? If I didn’t have all those boxes I’d never have found the pasta maker.” “You don’t need the boxes, dad.” When he dies, if he hasn’t already, based on what I know of my ex-girlfriend’s way, those boxes will be slung into a skip. Done. Maybe at the bottom of one of them is the golden egg that hatches the goose.

But. Right now where I’m sitting I can see: a polystyrene bust of my head wearing a ladies summer hat.

My childhood sweet jar, empty. An almost completely empty thing of aftershave. Two beautiful unframed prints by my cousin, rolled up on top of my “tuck box”. Loads of unused and unloved cookbooks. An old pewter tankard full of pens. A small affectionate cat with pointy ears. Two pairs of headphones. An unused surround sound system. A yoga mat. Bike cleaner. Super sweet cherry brandy. Poetry. Passports. Bills. Wires. Junk junk junk.

I would never miss half of this stuff. Right now I’m trying to get some money, because I have all this time and all these crazy plans, hopes and dreams. My flat is full of junk and dreams. They’re in competition.

My attic is packed – my life is packed – with crap that I’ve been carrying since everybody died and the money collapsed.

I can only sell or get rid of stuff that is incontrovertibly mine. Stuff that is owned by my brothers and I that I’d love to sell and split I find myself unable to because of their inertia. I can’t do it for myself but it takes a week to get a straight answer about anything from my nearest brother and I won’t make the decisions alone.

Maybe it’s time to start…

The city is flooded at the moment. Persistent overnight rainfall, and still this biting cold. Spring keeps valiantly popping up to get slapped back down like a whack-a-mole. All the news is dark. Even April Fools Day news was lost because stories far more outlandish than spaghetti trees are disseminated online every day of the year and passed off as truth. We are consistently lied to so blatantly that we forget that lies can sometimes be written without the intent of manipulating opinion. Just for a joke. Tell that to the people shouting “Fake news” at The Onion like they’ve worked it out.

No work today. I’ve been trying to kick my brother out from whichever hole he’s hiding in. And at home I’ve been attempting to maintain the new house rule: Leave it the same or better. I’ve been working out a plan of action with the expensive Jersey lawyers. And I’ve sent a few – (too few) – invoices. The highlight of my day was going for a freshmint tea. Yep. That was the only time I left the house.

Sprig of mint in a glass. Add warm water. “That’ll be three quid twenty please mate.” Service charge 12% added. It wasn’t my round but it still hurt my head. Artists are not supposed to live in this town. People that think £25 is a good price for a yoga class should live in this town. Which is why artists MUST live in this town – so they can teach the yoga classes.

I need to finish the steps to get this flat Airbnb-ish so I can use other people’s spending power to augment my own. Obviously a West End job would cut it too. But while I wait I’d still like to make my home lovely and experiment with renting it to Chelsea Flower Show types.

I’ll need a power shower. I’ll need a carpet that isn’t covered in ancient wine stains and generations of dust. I’ll need a new bed frame. I can probably get away without the carpet until I’ve raised the cash for it by renting. So that’s all and it’s quite manageable.

Going in for a commercial casting on Thursday that will bankroll the shower and maybe give me a chance to visit dad’s grave – (he’s in Switzerland and that’s where it’s shooting.) Commercial castings are a crap-shoot, but I still have a surprisingly good hit rate (one of my commercials won an award dahling) so I’ll allow myself to hope towards it. The fee keeps dropping for the work, but the work is pleasant and usually efficient and you frequently get to travel.

Typically this audition is on the only day of day job work I’ve got this week, and the daily shoot fee is just shy of the wage I suspect I’ll have to forfeit in order to attend the audition. But I know where my priorities lie. I always have. “I am in blood stepped in so far, that go back were as tedious as go o’er.” So, wish me luck I guess. Meanwhile I’ll tidy the kitchen and go to bed early.

Dinner at friends and too much wine. I’ve been playing with the idea of getting back on the wagon recently but then there’s an open bottle of Barolo and who am I to argue with that? I should probably have more self control. But it’s Easter Monday.

A year ago today I was in the New Forest thinking I was falling in love. Now I’m back in the rut, I honestly don’t know how I’m going to afford this month, I haven’t had an audition for ages. I’m fed up of being on the verge of stuff. Yes there’s money just a bit of money away. These blocks blocks blocks. I’m trying to break them down but I’m so fed up of obstruction after obstruction. I’d like to be in love again. I’d like the freedom of a little money. I’d like the self esteem of a job. I’d like I’d like I’d like. Want want want. Poor little Chelsea boy. Where’s my quinoa?

I’ve booked headshots for April 24th with my agent’s choice. I can’t afford them. I’ve just booked them and I’m trusting the universe because actually I can find work that pays if I look. It’s not as if I’m unemployable. I’m just stubborn and I want acting work.

They’re not talismanic, new headshots, but at least I don’t have blepharitis anymore so my eyelids won’t be red. And I’ll shave my beard. New start etc. “My, how young you look.” Headshots get sent to the people who decide who they want to see for parts. My current beardy shots are a bit too terrorist for the fact that I’m a soft spoken man with a comedic sensitivity.

Something is stopping me from getting auditions. Probably bad luck and unfavorable numbers. If I get in the room it usually goes well, so anything I can do to raise the chances of walking through that door…

Sorry, world. I’m pissed and pissed off. This is a vent. With this phone I can only write chronologically so it just comes out as it comes and I’m not editing. I want to get this scheduled so I can play Backgammon.

I’m on the sofa with Lyndon and Tanya right now. Tristan is smoking on the balcony. The evening is burning into late warmth and the view from this flat is gorgeous. I’ve had a beautiful meal in great company. Last night I went for drinks and company with two unutterably delightful beings. My life is so rich, and yet still I want more. I’ve opened the space for some amazing people. I have to accept that the way things are is just the way things are. And keep looking for the opportunity to effect positive change.

Macbeth gathers pace, Beowulf is back soon, there’s stuff in the pipeline. Wherever we are is called here, and we must treat it as a powerful stranger…

Happy Easter! This really is the rebirth time but it feels like everything is blocked. It always rains in April so what the hell, but the cold is still clinging on. About time we had a proper winter, perhaps… But did it have to happen in spring? Damn I hate the cold.

The Sam Wanamaker Playhouse inside The Globe building operates in all weathers, this shit included.

I have wanted to see something there for a while. I first experienced it performing what they call a “Read not Dead”. That’s where a little performed Jacobean play is staged for an audience of academics. It’s part of the Globe Education program and I can see how it would be useful to the academics. Performance is so completely different to theory. These verse plays, borne from a time where the oral tradition was losing traction because of the printing press – they are not meant to be studied on paper, they must be heard. They are spoken events. The word “here/hear” is a perfect example. Spoken it means both. But the printing press came and the compositor has to make a choice, even though the writer says “I mean both.” So it’s very helpful to the fusty academic types to heere these “lesser” plays performed. You can’t easily sustain a run of an obscure Jacobean play unless it’s got Famousy mcFamous in it and even then you’ll struggle. Better off for producers to do whatever’s on the GCSE syllabus yaaaawn. Which is why Read not Dead exists.

Anyway, the playhouse is filled with candles when there’s a “proper” show on. I went to see Vivaldi’s Four Seasons with a chamber orchestra and some puppeteer friends. I saw the candles, and occasionally the puppets. I only paid a tenner, you see. My view was… well I could see the orchestra. There were some attractively designed benches, and some people puppets beautifully animated but mostly out of sight. And the top of my friend’s head making me all too aware of the passage of time.

For a tenner I was very happy. I saw the musicians play. That was beautiful constantly. Plus I understood that the puppets had a pretty shit time mostly. Occasionally it was easy in puppetworld. They did a lot of swimming or flying, which I could witness. There were also butterflies, a nice cat and black things that might have been depression. And it all went full circle, just like life, really.

Then we stopped by the Tate modern, where some lunatic literally clocked himself in every hour for a whole year in 1981, and took an hourly photo, even through the nights when he was sleeping – he woke hourly. A whole year. The photos are all lined up round a wall. Thousands of them.

It’s a testament to how ridiculously stubborn a human being can be. He must have sacrificed so much life for his obsession. I understand that. I am writing minimum 500 words daily no matter what mood I’m in or what damage it does. It’s 2.45am right now. This whole blog process has become almost insurmountably difficult now I’m not only fighting technology but also now watching my words. I don’t really know why I’m doing it anymore. I’m losing faith. I’m just keeping on because I’m too stubborn to stop.

I’ve started to have bad things come from this blog. That was never the plan.

The rain is smashing my window . The clock is past 3. Fuck it I’m posting again and I’m not going over and trying to edit again on this phone because it’s basically impossible. Goodnight. Zzzz rain zzzz

Chocolate can make you feel better. We’ve all been there. Sitting on the sofa shoveling handfuls of it into our faces watching people fall in love on the telly. Don’t try to deny it. I saw you.

Why does it make us happy? Ok, yeah, sugar, sure. Anyone that’s ever met a Mormon knows that sugar makes you happy in a kind of full on wired bouncy bouncy “oh my god my cheeks are gonna burst” way. But also there’s cacao. “That’s the same as cocoa right?” you say as another vegan explodes in a shower of kale. Don’t say it! We need our vegans intact. They’re helping us realise the extent to which we’re messing everything up. Cacao is kind of not the same as cocoa because it isn’t the same, right. Yeah. Look I’m just writing this crap. I’m no expert. (A quick look on Google says it’s cold pressed, so “raw” which is the most expensive 3 letter foodjective.)

Cacao – in its purest form – has been used in ceremony for 4000 years . Obviously before it gets to our Easter eggs as chocolate it has been genetically modified by Nestlé to have three heads and then been used to bludgeon a baby seal to death in front of its mother. But the Aztecs and Olmecs and other varied denizens of the South American rainforests (before they were palm oil plantations full of cows and murderers) – they used the stuff in ritual. Because it makes you happy. And opens your heart.

It’s a full moon in Libra. (Here he goes again with the astrological crap. He’s only just finished trying to make cocoa sound like medicine.) But yeah. Maybe there’s something in all this. It’s older than most of the crap we trust, like Murdoch, that guy in the pub with the shining eyes, Trevor Noah, Tarot cards, BBC Weather. I like old things.

So assuming that this isn’t all just hooey – (my usual approach to things that most people think is all hooey) – what’s with the cacao and the moon today, Al?

Well I took my shoes and socks off and had some cold cacao in a room with about 50 people to mark the blue moon. I’m Libra and it’s a Libra moon. Cacao makes sense at Easter time with all the chocolate. And you’ve probably had me on ritual before but I’ll reiterate: We need more of it. Especially if we are going to keep defining ourselves in opposition to religion. I lay on a yoga mat with a mug from my childhood. My dad let me choose it for myself in Liptons before the Isle of Man broke and let shit like Tesco and Macdonalds come over. I was glad to use it, and had a nice little inner journey in a dark room full of strangers, thinking about stuff to change. Then a few people started hitting drums and we all danced. I wasn’t the only man in the room. There were at least 5 of us. And it was a good little ceremony, entirely harmless, happy, positive and free of the ooglyboogly as long as you’re willing to accept a cup of cold cacao as a medicine or sacrament. If you’ve seen how I behave around a glass of vintage port you’ll know that I am very happy to attribute significance to stuff in a glass.

I’m home now, under the cat, after a bank holiday Saturday night in Hackney. I feel great and I’ve only had a cup of chacalott. It’s only just gone midnight and I think I’m happy to wind down. Clearly the ceremony already had an effect… As far as I’m concerned, a lovely Saturday night.

So there we go. The launch of a new project. A load of people came to a church hall in Pimlico and threw some stuff at the wall. Now I’m sitting in my living room with Pickle, Anne May and gin. May is currently in the kitchen making a noise like she’s being exorcised, but I think it’s just wind.

Factory Macbeth. About 20 actors today. Apart from Macbeth, we knew who we were playing which was pleasant. Macbeth came down to either Scott or Maz. Two audience members played “scissor paper stone” – (an old tradition but still a good one) – and scissors cut paper so Scott was out despite his wife being in the audience. She had to put up with him playing Macduff’s child, famously played by naked Keith Chegwin in Polanski’s film. Scott did it with his clothes on, and beautifully, but it’s a tiny part. It’s a familiar pitfall with The Factory. There’s no point inviting friends/industry because you honestly don’t know who you’ll be playing most of the time. Marianne played Macbeth tonight though. It was joyful.

This company has been going for a while now. We work to our tastes, challenging ourselves to be simple while deliberately obstructing simplicity. I’m very proud of the work we did at the inception of this new project. We could’ve been simpler, quicker, smarter etc. But it was a strong start. We had a surprisingly full house, and some wonderfully involved and directional audience witches. I realised that wearing tights over my glasses in a hot room is a recipe for disaster though. I was playing Banquo, so I was dead after the first hour. In this show once you’re dead you’re back immediately with tights on your head as a physical part of the game. It’s not like trad 1950’s Banquo where you can get drunk in the interval and stagger on for the pageant. Notwithstanding that I looked mildly ridiculous with glasses on beneath my tights, cold practice time could not have prepared me for a room full of hot people. Almost instantly my specs steamed up with my breath, and they didn’t clear. The ghost of Banquo was genuinely dangerous because not only was it in hell, it was also completely blind and could easily have broken your ankle if it had got overexcited. Still I had the rest of the company around me and you are never alone in that group.

The show is an exploration of Macbeth, paying close attention to the language, doing it with minimum everything. What we have in The Factory is good people, skill and time. What we lack – deliberately – is budget. It’s a collective of working actors who come together and make stuff when they have gaps. We make it clean and in such a way that anyone can drop in to any part at any time so long as they know it. The only thing we have to make sure of is that all parts are covered. In this current iteration, audience members play the witches, and that’s joyful.

I’ve had a beautiful evening. My brain is exhausted. It’s been an intensive few hours, followed by a wind down and a little too much gin. The last proper Factory show I did was The Odyssey. If this project gives me half as much joy and fries my brain a quarter as much I’ll be happy. And it’s geared up to be a corker. Next show is the 8th. I won’t be Banquo. My best bet is Lady Macduff…

Here’s Al, one of our founders, attempting to tell people what to expect.

There I was being all complacent and thinking I could get away with pulling something over my face and hiding in the crowd in tomorrow’s Macbeth showing. “Chris has got Banquo covered,” I said to myself. I can just swan in, do a lord or something, bish bash bosh, no pressure, there at the start, doesn’t stand or fall on my knowledge, “Factory Macbeth – yeah I did that”. I rolled in all chilled to the session this morning, an hour late, and there’s the usual crowd, these beautiful hearts who have been part of my life for so long, Chris on his crutches wait what crutches? Fuck.

Yeah so I’m in the mix for Banquo now. I have to make sure I know the order of the scenes and actually be alert.

Chris didn’t fall out of a tree like some eejits do. He’s had a knee operation, but it’s taken it out of him more than he anticipated. And knees are notoriously fiddly things. If they go weird they don’t fix nicely. We have to take care of them. God outsourced the knee building bit to the intern. It’s nice to have a sergeant on crutches and it’s less movement dependent to play a dying man. So it looks like I’ll Banquo it up again. In Wales I was in excruciating pain after my oak-dive. The pain lent me a certain depth and helped me remember to ground myself, which is my usual first note from the director. So now I’ll likely get to play Factory Banquo physically healthy for the first time (if a bit fatter than usual.) And within that hopefully I’ll remember to stay grounded. And this time if Macbeth slaps me on the back in an embrace I won’t scream like I’m giving birth and almost pass out. Although manly back-slapping is all a bit claspy-handshakeland, so probably should go in the bullshit pile with all the other stuff people do more frequently on stage than they do in real life. Brian and Mel are on the list as audience. Oh hell. So much for a chilled out show.

Early bed tonight then. The reduced gods are kind and have decreed pies for Brian and I. I’m winding down already, and it’s only half eight. Part of me is obsessing over shared lines and scene endings for Banquo bearing in mind it won’t be easy for players to clock out and check their scripts tomorrow. We’ll need to know it.

Most of me though, to sidetrack utterly, is getting extremely angry about this blue question mark that WordPress has imposed on me. It’s there in the most useful part of my screen making it hard to edit and serving absolutely no purpose other than to obstruct. I’ve got to the stage where I can blog on even this godawful mobile, and then they throw another thing in my way. Grrr. Someone was probably paid loads of money for that shit. I’ve already sent them two tweets about it because it’s seriously obstructive. Like they’ll give a shit.

I’ve been back at The Factory today. Lots of lovely people in a room in Pimlico throwing balls at each other. The Macbeth that we scratched in Wales has been developing. It’s almost time to throw it into a room with people who have no lines and want to pay to watch. Then we can see what happens. There’s a first show coming on Friday. Thankfully I’ve been very dayjobby this last fortnight so the chances are, barring injury, I won’t have to do a great deal other than witch it up. Although complacency will be punished. I’ll need to be on it – we all will. We don’t know what the hell will happen or be needed. But that’s a familiar feeling now with these guys. And frankly, I love it. But then I’ve always been an adrenaline junkie.

Last night was spent sleeping on a friend’s sofa. She has not slept there since the guy she was living with moved out taking loads of their stuff, leaving lots of nasty little messages and taking a set of keys. Knowing he could come in at any time makes it hard for her to relax there. I thought it might help if I stayed round. I think it did a bit, although she didn’t sleep a wink. At least she was there. She’s been on people’s sofas. I think next she has to have a party and really reclaim the flat. She’s lived there for years. This little turd is just a blip. But she’s been working in America and letting him stay against her better judgement. Which gave him the time he needed to break as much as he could. And so her home has become a trigger for her. I spent ages “smudging” her bed – (trying to burn out bad energy with smoke.) Then I slept fitfully on the sofa bed while she stayed up all night next door. She finally hit sleep after dawn.

It’s so easy for us to betray each other. Destroying something takes seconds, building something takes time and care. He betrayed her trust catastrophically. We all want to love and be loved. Reading tarot last night I found myself saying – after Schopenhauer – that human desire is like hedgehogs snuggling together for warmth. They need the warmth but they have spikes. We are all strangely shaped and confused and drawn to one another but baffled by one another. Let’s try and keep kindness as our guide.

I allowed my energy to get pushed out of whack the other day by history, and did multiple things I regret in the space of three days. It’s an extremely volatile time for me, the build up to the deathiversary. If I attacked you I’m sorry. 15 years ago I smashed as much as I could smash. The bitter coincidence of mum and dad on the same day many years apart. Minnie survived the wreckage through sheer exercise of kindness, and earned her stripes as best friend. But the year turns round, the daffodils show their faces, and I try to screw up everything good in my life. It’s a spring thing.

It’s a good time to look at Macbeth. Treacherous bastard. I’m really looking forward to seeing where this project goes, and what I have to learn from it. Meantime I’ll keep throwing out ill advised piles of words and hoping that the process will improve my quality of life and that of those around me. Not work to the detriment of both!!

Meanwhile this evening I’m throwing a cricket ball around in my flat. Hopefully I won’t break the windows.

Rather than go to rehearsal today I watched a plumber fix my loo. I can’t pretend it was the most fun I’ve ever had. But at least the loo now works. I used the same guy that fixed my boiler. He’s probably sneaking into my flat at night to sabotage things so I have to pay him to mend them. But he’s got a nice smile. And I haven’t caught him yet.

There was a box in the cupboard where the stopcocks are. I had to take it out for him. I opened it to assess the contents, out of curiosity. Oh Pandora. Right at the top was a little bag full of photos. At some point, years ago, I must have filled that bag and put it in an oubliette. It was photos of me having OH SO MUCH FUN with a succession of beautiful girlfriends. Oh how we are laughing in the sun playing on beaches and holding hands. I spent a while nostalgically shuffling through these relics of what I now affectionately refer to as the “girlfriends era.” Memory compartmentalises. I had boxed them up, but there they were waiting. I had forgotten those days in Brighton or Europe or Reading or ! with sunsets and guitars, running in woods, visiting new places, eating tasty food in nature, being half of a whole, being in love.

Today is a day of reflection for me generally. It’s the deathiversary. I’m always very aware of its approach. It leaves me a little weird. But today was unexpected. I found myself thinking more of old loves and missed opportunities than of the loss of the unconditional. And mostly it was pleasant. Just remembering these achingly beautiful hearts who have crossed my life as I’ve been rolling along. They’re all – seemingly – happy, from what I can glean from friends (tailored) and Facebook (lies). One of them married a doctor. One of them is a doctor. One of them went to the doctor. One of them pays for all of our doctors with her tax. One is probably doctoring her tax. And with every single one of them I was punching above my weight. Wow. I set the bar super high. Good work Al you charming bastard. Now how come you’ve left it so long this time?

I did just have one of those “my friend fancies you” conversations today. My initial reaction was a cold hard shot of liquid nitrogen in my veins. “Fuck that,” said all of my instincts. The hairs on the back of my neck shot up. But then, maybe it’s time for another good kicking. You never know, I might like it. It might be lovely. She’ll eat my liver raw.

Meanwhile I’m coming into people’s homes and bringing all my mystic stuff. I was invited to dinner by three Buddhists who I met in a caravan, which sounds like a pretty standard sentence for 1966. They are becoming friends. “Shall I bring anything?” I asked, thinking wine/pudding.”Your cards,” they told me. I see. That’s what they brought me round for. And it was a lovely evening. They’re a community of old friends looking after each other on this strange journey. I did some readings on satin and smudged around some Palo Santo and chanted with them a while. Helping them feel better helped me feel better.

I guess that’s what life comes down to. We seek to make ourselves feel better and in so doing we try to make other people feel better too. But we’re all scrabbling around in the dark and we know less about what we want than we can intuit about what others want. Sometimes we find an answer and stick with it in the hopes it’ll be mutually fulfilling. Sometimes we run from what’s best for us. But we’ve only been us for a limited time. And even our self identity is slippery. How can we work out what we actually want? By work, by chance and by time, I guess.

Brian and I live very happily. But there’s a lot of clutter. My best friend swears by Marie Kondo, who wrote a faddy book that essentially says “throw literally everything away unless you can’t bear to”. Minnie’s never tried to evangelise me even if she’s made me aware of the good side of it. When you go to visit her it’s a lovely clear home, though you can’t have tea if there’s more than three people. She only has three mugs that “spark joy”. As her friend I need to find her a mug that “sparks joy” so she’ll have some more bloody joyful bloody mugs. I’m terrified to break anything at hers too – I know it passed a hard test to still be there. All her remaining possessions have great notional weight. At mine you can throw stuff around a bit. Break something round mine and I’ll likely not care. “Oh, my grannies egg slicer… meh”. “Wear your shoes if you like and not if you don’t. I don’t give a fuck about the carpet. You spilt wine? Don’t waste salt.”

We live in this flat and we’re happy here. I have my own possessions that spark joy. I also have the stuff of multiple deceased people who I’ve loved. I have my uncle Peter’s childhood “things” pot full of kitchen utensils. I have Dad’s kilt for special occasions. I have my mother’s wooden salad bowl. My grandmother’s big pot. Grandpa’s razor. I use this stuff. It sparks something akin to joy. Should I burn the past entirely? None of it is perfect. All of it still works.

The only rules I have are don’t put eggs in the fridge, don’t be a twat and think actively about waterflow upwards when you’re loading the dishwasher.

But today I started a tidy that is long overdue. Yeah I’ve got a lot of stuff that has meaning and joy for me. But I also have a lot of junk I don’t need. I’m not hoarding but I need a trim. And I needed a catalyst too.

An old friend, who was comfortable last time she stayed but who has been through a lot since then – she came back and couldn’t handle it here. I’d left her catsitting while I was in Liverpool and the flat was at its absolute worst at the time she arrived and we left. I dropped her in at the deep end. Both Brian and myself had been peaking to that wedding and had been worse than ever for tidying. I told her as much but it didn’t land

I got back to find no change – clearly she’d been sitting there like she was in a warzone, panicking, and assuming this worst case was the new normal – while doing nothing to help herself. Literally nothing. I got started on a big tidy while she got finished on finding somewhere else.

She’s found a friend with a regular job, a cleaner and a spare room. In Vauxhall. She told me as I was rubbing stuff off the kitchen floor at the end of the day. It’s probably for the best. She needs to heal. I’m sad she had already given up by the time I got back because this is a healing place. It’s what my home is for. But this guy has a gym. And my place was not clean.

Still, I’ve needed a tidy up irrespective. Although I was trying to tidy according to what was important for her. I ended up asking her for her list of priorities.

She thinks the radiator guards disrupt air convection so she removes them and then sees the ancient dust behind them. Following that line of thinking she determines that the radiators blow the dust into the room as if they were fan heaters. It’s always useful to get another perspective on the world. But ffs.

After she told me she was leaving I immediately and unconsciously moved my attention to cleaning around my Gohonzon. Then I noticed and said to her: “I’ve learnt something about myself. This cluttered Gohonzon has been troubling me for weeks, but I didn’t touch it until you said you were leaving. And then when I knew this tidy was for me and not for you I went to it immediately.” It was an epiphany about how I still keep putting other people’s needs before my own. It was a big realisation. She listened and responded: “So you would be happy with a horrible toilet, all that dust and mess so long as only that gohonzon was done. I see.” !!!!! My brother is married. I don’t know how he does it.

Artists are rarely scientists and my beloved mother was amazingly neurotic. Maybe dust does convect. Maybe selfish epiphanies should always be countered offhand with contempt.

I’m happy to tidy my flat because it needs tidying. There’s days more work before it’s done. It’ll never be done to Minnie’s Kondo standard. But if I can get it to a reasonable nick before Chelsea Flower Show then maybe I can rent it to some VIP and go on holiday far far from the magical dust dragons behind the radiator covers.

Meanwhile the fact I’m upset that my friend moved in with mister gym also demonstrates my self sabotage. If she was still here I’d be on the sofa again. As it is I get a sleep in my bed, just inches from the radiator of death. But I’m sad that she felt uncomfortable here and wouldn’t trust that I was improving things. I can’t let that ever happen again. It defeats the object of the way I live. I don’t have a gym. But I have a home.