AlBarclay

I’m sitting on a bench in the evening sun. Behind me the main road, busier than it has been so far. 6.20pm. Before me Thamesis, old father Thames, with maybe two more hours of ebb before slack water. The evening sun is behind and to my right, dappled through the plane trees, shining off the right hand frame of my glasses, warming me through the shoulder of my jumper. The breeze blows on my left cheek. Despite the main road at my back it is possible to be peaceful here.

I’ve just carried a bag of electronics to the recycling point and now I’m having a bottle of moretti and a peaceful sit down to write this and dose up on vitamin D.

My flat is in flux at the moment with all the jobs underway and I find if I write this there then the conflict of all the clutter affects my thinking and urges unhelpful thinking. I’m trying to move things on meaningfully up there, but one problem is that I’m not too good at endings. And there’s a lot of “past” up there, most of it not even mine.

I’ve thrown out lots of broken electronics that still have their stories. I’ve passed on the shirt I bought that day in Texas, the jumper I wore when I had that conversation. I don’t use them, but somebody might. These items need another life away from my stories and I need to keep paring back my stuff until it is less emotionally complicated to be in my own home. eBay tomorrow, for any old stuff, just to get back in the swing of it. I’ve kept lots of boxes so I can sell things that take up space. Wooden heads and big earthenware jugs and vases. When I find there’s a space up there that I’ve made, I breathe out into it. I keep looking at the little hard things that have improved and smiling. Plug sockets and light fittings mostly, and sorted piles. The work is enjoyable. But at this pace I’ll need another year of lockdown. But the more I do the more I feel I want to do it and the more I feel connected to the results.

The sky is perfect blue. I thought I’d never see that again after the eruption in Iceland. I remember saying that to someone at the time. “Look at the sky with no trails, no planes. We will never see that again.” Little did we know.

How will this fadge? At some point we have to come out, but what will change when we do? Will it be too early or too late? Will it be uncomfortable? What of the world? Has it really has the chance to breathe, knowing people are gearing up to sack it doublehard? What of the morning tube, elbow to nose, crushed together in each other’s sweat and each other’s mood? Will there be tales, in twenty years, of the old guy living in the woods who never came out of lockdown? “Every night, at midnight, you can hear the clicks as he orders something he doesn’t need on Amazon.”

I’m going back up to do more organising. That’s all we can do. Little things, every day. And we will know when we know.

Today was the fortnightly shop for the lovely Jacqueline who explained at length how she can’t work the internet until I told her it was fine. She only asked me for a small amount of wine in the initial list mentioning that she was worried about weight. I told her I wasn’t concerned about weight and she should order what she wanted. I ended up with 14 bottles in the trolley not counting the ones I had for myself.

Getting to the checkout wearing all my protective gear, two lads joined the queue behind me and seemed pretty restless and kept looking at me as everything was checked and bagged. I was going as fast as I could but had one transaction I needed to check as it went through, and then my own on a separate ticket. As it turns out their attention was to do with my safety gear. The industrial respirator is so heavy duty I at first thought I couldn’t get away with wearing it without making people feel weird but I’ve seen a fair few people using them now. It’s all I’ve got, but it attracts attention. “All this mask and lockdown stuff is bollocks mate,” I’m told as I’m heading for the door.

We are all so fed up with being shut in, and we are all dealing with it differently. I hit the booze yesterday on an empty stomach and regretted it today. I had the best part of a bottle of Penderyn that I bought for night-caps. I watched lovely zoom theatre – Operation Elsewhere – and didn’t pay attention to how much I was putting away. By the time I wrote my blog I was three sheets to the wind and angry. My first proper girlfriend once spelled out to me my physiology in front of my friends as we all got ready for a big night. We were living together back then and she had a good handle on me. We were very close.

“Don’t drink wine, it makes you drunk. Don’t drink whisky, you get angry. Don’t drink gin, you get sad. Stick to beer.”

She was right on all counts. Still is. And I was 23.

I’m running a bath and winding towards an early night. I need to step up my speed on the DIY so I don’t want to be slow in the morning. I changed one light fitting today and it took me way too long.

Still, I’m getting through it, but there’s just so much to do, and one of the shoddy old chipboard shelves in my bedroom gave way under a weight of books this morning as I was looking at it. I managed to get everything off it before it collapsed entirely but it’s a timely reminder that I need to finish electricity so I can move on to carpentry. And then maybe see if I can do something about the carpet… Much as I’m fed up of lockdown I’ve definitely got stuff to keep me going until the doors open. And that’s not even taking into account all the eBay selling…

I’ve just tuned out of a zoom meeting. Is this the new normal? I’ve got stuff I need to write. Aka this. But this cannot last much longer, surely?

This evening we were lucky enough to be featured on BBC Front Row with The Tempest. We only have one more day of shows scheduled. Inevitably it sold out immediately following the beeb spot. That is a wonderful celebration of the BBC, who while we are in reduced circumstances have turned the lens onto those of us who are making things despite the constraints. We only got about 4 minutes of exposure after lots of stuff about Elgar. But the four minutes we got were golden.

It’s nice to have been spotlit doing something “regional”. We need more respect and a louder voice in the regions, both for Big Telly out of Port Stewart, and Creation out of Oxford and many many more companies.

A man who calls himself a casting director and photographer took my expensive headshot once on my agent’s reccomendation, and immediately questioned and dismissed my credits with Sprite out of Ripley, through Liam who is now producing at Clwyd. He saw the parts I’d played and asked with a degree of smugness: “Is Sprite your company then?” expecting the answer YES.

“No. I had to audition.” I replied. But immediately I had seen through this photographer who was masquerading as a casting director as he used his limited worldview to dismiss my credits.

Halfway through the session, while I was shaving, by sheer happy coincidence I was phoned up and asked to do a bit of work for Scene and Heard. He earwigged the conversation, and uttered the immortal words “Scene and Heard? But they only use GOOD actors…” He had heard of them, you see. Limited worldview.

He suddenly started to care. He tried to make up for the fact he hadn’t given a toss for the whole of the first half of the shoot. By that stage he’d already fucked my faith in him though. I saw him for what he was and couldn’t be bothered with him and his posturing.

The second half of the shoot was considerably better than the first. He wasn’t talking to me like I was some idiot. So instead it was lots of shots of someone with “screw you, you arrogant bastard” in the eyes. I knew he had no real idea of an actor’s brain and based on what I’d seen, I disrespected him utterly.

They are lots of photos of me looking at this blocked fool with badly drawn lines of how competence works and received ideas about who is allowed to make art. I had no respect for him whatsoever by the end of the shoot because I could find no ground for it. Nevertheless he’ll do very well. This is not a meritocracy, dammit.

We all have to limit our circle I guess. We can’t think everybody is wonderful, as then we are seen to have no discernment.

He had chosen to actively dismiss the idea of me as an artist based on his assessment of my CV via his limited prism. And yet he had the hubris to make that obvious and then try to take calling card photos.

I, similarly, chose to dismiss him because of his value driven insincere behaviour. “If you’re not happy I offer a service where I can do another session.” Ha. No. Voucher for someone else and yes.

It’s hard if you’ve hit some luck to remember that good work done outside of London is still good work even if writeypeople are usually too lazy to go see it. That jumped up fucker evidently hit enough luck that he’s doing Spotlight meetings during lockdown as if his opinion matters. Actors are signing up hoping it’ll bring work rather than just stroke his ego and I fucking hope that the version of him I saw isn’t the only one. Maybe he’s great for people he likes. Although I don’t think he has a strong enough character.

Four minutes BBC for us is better than no minutes BBC, and of course four minutes sold us out. We cap at 100 so we can be sure people will feel included. It doesn’t take long to sell us out. Even though we are not based in London.

Everything is in flux at the moment.

Creation, who made this possible, also made possible The Odyssey in a co-pro with The Factory almost a decade ago. The Odyssey still stands as a truly unquestionably LIVE show, often sabotaged by fear and desire for control but always fighting in the right direction. My scientist brother revealed the other day how it was my nephew’s first ever bit of theatre and he loved it.

Right now we are making live theatre in lockdown. That’s all we are doing. Obedience photo-bloke could easily dismiss this credit too. Nobody is special.

But thank fuck somebody is making community as best as possible in this weird time.

I’m tuning into my witches. I’m tired of the sound of my own head. I don’t even know if this makes sense. I’m not going to check. We have another Tempest coming.

Meanwhile I put another Chandelier up, this time in my living room… Lucky bastard, me.

 

 

 

 

I’ve been looking over last year’s blogs written at this time. It was just after I’d brought in all the boxes full of smokey weird things that I’m still making sense of. I had been trying to work out how to clean the busts that I’ve only just worked out how to (kind of) clean.

“It’s local elections!” We said back then at 7.40pm “Shit I haven’t voted!”

Brian and I went out to vote. “Have you voted already?” we asked someone who was home with us. “Yeah I did it in the morning before I left.”

Brian and I wandered around confused, going from one potential polling station to the next, all dark, before the internet told us there was no election in our constituency – (or the constituency of the person who had voted that morning.)

We came back and we laughed at ourselves. We laughed at the one who pretended they’d voted. We didn’t know how lucky we were just to be casually moving around laughing at one another.

I miss that ease, when the flat had a saloon door, and people came and went so fluidly and constantly. The variance of the personalities. The different things they brought.

I would have been so thrilled and warmed over the weekend had I had someone to bounce thoughts off. Someone who I could listen to and respond to live. Someone who could hold the thing I’d otherwise hold in my mouth while I was trying to do stuff with both hands (THAT’S YOUR MIND NOT MY WRITING). Someone to wind down with and wind up with and bounce ideas off.

The grass is always greener.

Those of you locked in with lovers, great but we all need our space from time to time as well I know. After this long I’d be hankering to just explode myself and my stuff somewhere for a few days.

Those of you with kids – that’s got to be tough. Not that many distractions for the wee ones but the distractions you can provide. You’re likely on duty all the waking day. Maybe I’m lucky I’ve so far missed out on that.

Those of you alone like me, poking at the edges of the self-explosion – hi.

I’m keeping busy enough and there’s enough to do that I’m not stir crazy.

I took down the other chandelier today to clean. Likelihood is it’ll end up hanging in the living room until I get the other two down from the attic but I know how the things fit together now. I reckon it’s one more day on electrics, with what I bought so far. I’ll be buying more sockets now the proof of concept has worked. Whoever fitted the originals didn’t earth them fully, and even put some of them in upside down. One of the plugs that I changed today came out with two bits of broken metal jammed into the current. There was a junction upstairs that had been taped up with LX tape by a sparky friend one night. He got it working but didn’t have a nice junction box to put the wires into. Now, thanks to WhatsAppTristan, panic, and guesswork, after two attempts where switching the breakers on immediately tripped the local fuse, WhatsAppTristan and I tried a third time and the light went on constantly, no matter what the plug did. Eventually we worked out what Phil had done and rigged wires marked with positive to wires marked with neutral, after some baffled googling that taught about switches and how their wiring works. Scary but solid. It’s been like that for over a year and actually it makes sense if you know which is the switch and which is the power. Now it’s housed in a junction box and not in LX tape. Nothing has caught fire and nobody is dead yet. Stop worrying.

Here’s Havelock and some friends. They are mostly fucked. But they’re impressive. These were the equivalent of celebrities and football players in their day. They were the people who came into your living room, via Punch or the papers.

When people come round and sniff at the pomposity of these busts “Why are these people celebrated,” I’ll tell them I had friends with posters of Chesney Hawkes in their bedroom. Wendy James. Morton Harket. Amanda deCadenet. Matt and Luke Goss.

I’d sooner have a fire damaged scowling bust of Havelock to most of the people on that list, although Wendy James would be welcome to come help with the DIY because I put HER up on my wall in her denim after Transvision Vamp released Velveteen and I decided she was cool as fuck. I bet she still is now. But you never lose your teenage crush.

These busts are all of people with skills outside of being cool. Wonderful composers, philosophers, artists, writers. And many many statesmen and generals in an idiom that would make NO SENSE to anyone these days as the world has moved on. But nonetheless they were great in their day. Although I know little to nothing about Havelock other than that I assume he was part of Terry Pratchett’s inspiration for Lord Vetinari.

Nowadays horrorclownshow humans like the Hopkins and the Donald and the Kardashians – because they’ve been in our living rooms – they are the ones who would be made into busts with the new material if we were Victorians. 150 years from now people would be googling footballers and pop stars and, God help us, actors. We need to be mindful of who we decide are our heroes. People are people.

I was supposed to be taking it easy today but the Soda Crystals did a lovely job on the Beethoven bust and I got curious.

Are many of them salvageable? I’ve got a few boxes of them, mostly smoke damaged, and I sidelined them when I thought there was no way I’d ever get the smoke out. Today I’ve been back and forth to the kitchen with marigolds and a toothbrush, and there’s a little collection of Victorian dignitaries clustered around my sink. Some of them look pretty fly, although they’ve been exposed to a hell of a temperature and then sprayed with fire hoses so there are plenty of cracks and some of the ones I unwrap have exploded.

I sat in front of the great big telly and watched blue planet with one eye while knuckling into the chandelier with brasso. I still have the ammoniacal smell in my nostrils, but I’ve rebuilt the thing and hung it nicely in the bathroom without getting electrocuted. Coming up soon is doors, once the basic electrics are done with, and you can’t say I’m not learning even if as soon as a professional comes round they’ll shake their heads and say “who the fuck put this in?” I’ll need a professional before too long but it’s useful for me to upskill myself and do all the things that I reckon I can do during this time. The days are pretty eventful as a result. New things slow down time. But in a good way.

I’ve also got the juicer set up in the kitchen for the first time in ages. The theory is that tomorrow and every day until they run out I’ll start the day with a load of juiced stuff. I have plenty of apples and oranges and carrots. We take our pleasure where we can. Dad used to juice all sorts of things. He existed on nothing but juice and supplements for the last few years of his time with us. I got used to putting green peppers and bags of kale and all sorts of weird not very juicy stuff through his huge machine. Then I had to get the pulp and put it through again twice. “The best stuff is in the third run,” he’d tell me. And I still often find myself doing that. Yesterday I was thinking of a moment with mum as I wrote. Now a moment with dad. They leapfrog through the years with us, these hearts and minds that made us.

If I’m going to be trapped in my flat with a snake I might as well take a leaf out of dad’s healthy eating book and be kind to myself and eat well. I’m even taking my vitamins and supplements even if I’m cancelling it out with booze again for the weekend.

I really need to start prioritising exercise though. That’s not even on the huge list I’ve made… I should put it there. Carrying boxes doesn’t cut it.

Work normally provides a lot of exercise by mistake but I’m down to my daily walk and I didn’t even leave the house today. It’s 8pm and I’m still in the stuff I slept in.

Claire teaches barre online and she’s fab. I’m going to go on Monday. “New things…” I think I’m just a little scared of barre. But what have I got to lose?

I remember being with mum in this flat over two decades ago at this time of year. Back then there was a chandelier in the living room. It was covered in muck and attracting flies. I was early twenties and still trusting received information over my instincts, “balancing” as we do. Kids have to receive information. The world is potentially hazardous to somebody with no experience. They don’t get how or why roads are dangerous. They get told. They understand it to be true from what they’re told and witness the fast cars and then get hit by a football and extrapolate unconsciously. “The football hurt and it was softer and slower. My parents are right. Cars are not good things to be hit by.”

After a while in some thoughts people stop questioning the information and running it against their experience. They just funnel their expectation towards what they’ve been told is the way it works. I’m pretty diligent at mining these thoughts, but nobody can catch them all.”

“The chandelier is filthy – I think it’s attracting those flies,” I told mum. “Oh but darling it’s so difficult to get them cleaned.” Apparently you have to get a specialist who comes over to take them down, and hand clean all the bits of crystal individually. They take loads of time and costs loads of cash.

By the time I moved in, the living room chandelier had been taken down by mum and put in the attic. But there was still one in the bathroom, filthy. “You should clean that chandelier,” said Kitcat a few months ago, and I imagined the expensive skinny man in small glasses coming into the flat with white gloves and a huge price tag. “Maybe,” I said, and changed the subject.

I suddenly examined my assumptions today. Mum had told me it was a load of hassle to “get it cleaned”. “I’m going to clean it,” I thought. My days are spent working through a list of tasks I made. Camino taught me that a big thing can be broken up into lots of little things. Dad always used to say “Mony a mickle maks a muckle,” but I didn’t really understand that or internalise it like the cleaning of the chandelier being hard and by someone else.

I took apart the chandelier. That involved a little bit of electrical safety but I’d already been switching the breakers on and off all day, with Tristan holding my hand on WhatsApp as I (or more specifically he as I was just a conduit) changed a plug socket, changed a light fitting installed a Nest Thermostat and started to comprehend the electrics in this flat.

The pieces of individual crystal were beautiful but utterly swarming in filth. The brass had lost all shine. I looked at the pieces closely. The fixtures were brass. Even the ones embedded in the crystal. I had about half an hour of fighting with myself. Toothbrush and hours?

Reader, I put the lot in the dishwasher. Not the brass – I’ll brasso that tomorro

“You can’t put the chandelier in the dishwasher,” said a cartoon version of mum in my head as I did exactly that.

And it came out beautifully.

It’s so worth challenging our assumptions, on inconsequential matters like washing chandeliers, all the way up to fundamentals like “What constitutes value in other people”. I’m still chasing my assumptions around and all sorts of stuff keeps coming up that surprises me. We can call these received and unquestioned ideas prejudice in others when they don’t align with ours. But an attack on the assumption never helps. If someone had said “AL YOU IDIOT, JUST WASH IT IN THE DISHWASHER,” I would likely have defended myself. “Do you have chandeliers?” (YES = Well this one’s different. NO = So you don’t know what I know.) Parental wisdom is a huge part of how we filter stimulus. But we are all different from our parents and have different things we find easy and different things we find hard. Mum wouldn’t have enjoyed deconstructing the thing, or seeing the face of the brass under the brasso. I do. I did. I will. And so this disease gradually makes my flat more pleasant to be in…

For soundtrack today I decided to take choice out of my hands, much as I have with my film watching via just watching whatever the heck is leaving today on Mubi. I decided to listen to the Rolling Stone 100 best albums of the nineties, in reverse order, blind.

Moby was a strong start as it was teenage Christian geek Al’s JAM. Then some dude called Luna from New York who had somehow entirely passed me by back then. Into Ry Cooder and the wonderful Buena Vista Social Club, so evocative of that time when it was playing everywhere. That was the most productive period. I got most of today’s work done.

When the next one was Magnetic Fields and 69 Love Songs I knew I was onto something with this plan. I got stuff done, chuckling occasionally at the lyrics or a memory.

But that was before Aphex Twin, Selected Ambient Works Volume 2.

I’m sure there have been times when I’ve said “This sounds like the inside of my head. It’s the universe. Wow.” But when I said that I was 20 years old, lying on my back after a night clubbing, wondering if I should have said “no” to the dude named after a crustacean when he gave me a sip of his “water”. It’s like I’m in the womb with a stoned alien who’s playing the marimbas. It’s not conducive to work. But when I start a project I see it through so I’m listening to it anyway as it’s perfectly non-intrusive and so I can write this while I go.

Alongside the organising and tidying I’m trying to get back into the declutter so there’s a big bag of stuff for charity at the top of the stairs. I’ve also returned to the old question of “is it possible to get severe smoke damage out of Parianware?” Today I’ve been soaking a particularly stained bust of Beethoven in sink unblocker, to some success but still not good enough. Scrubbing with chlorine and bleach does feck all despite working a treat on porcelain.

Any scientists out there who can tell me if it’ll explode or melt if I dry it thoroughly, put on mask and goggles and pour 98% Sulphuric Acid on it? I’m reluctant to try but I seem to recall that Parianware involves H²SO⁴ somewhere in the creation process so it might just do the trick. Although if it does so I’d have to invest in some serious kit to make sure I don’t melt my lungs, blind myself, dissolve my hands etc.

There is war on many different fronts in this “get my flat sorted” campaign. But much of what needs to be done involves money and much of what is causing clutter could provide money if sold cleverly. So I have within the tangle the means of solving the tangle. It’s like some sort of allegorical tale. Sit down, oh Best Beloved, and let me tell you the tale of the man who was eaten by boxes and how he ate them back and grew fat and calm.

Next album is Kurt Cobain’s soul wrenching swansong playing live in New York for MTV and I can’t wait. But right now the birds are singing for evening, Aphex Twin is still trying to make me feel like I’m on a massive comedown, and I keep looking at the liquor cabinet…

Shopping today. It ain’t what it used to be. “No Browsing,” says a sign outside the Halfords next to the Pets at Home where I’m going. The queue is long at Halfords and strictly enforced.

I’ve timed it right for the pet store, but there’s “an airlock” as they call it in immersive theatre these days. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s come all the way from “Alien War”, the immersive experience in the 1990’s in The Trocadero. I went three times as a teenager. Young actors pretending to be space marines and one in an HR Giger Alien suit. In an immersive show it’s helpful to have someone who changes the world for you from “where did I put my ticket” to ” THIS IS AN ALIEN SPACESHIP”. That job in Alien War fell to a pretend Space Marine in a literal pretend airlock. “This is a hostile environment. Do not stray off the path!” (because unmarked areas aren’t dressed). “Do not get ahead of me!” (Or you’ll see the alien having a fag!” “Most importantly do not #insert playfulness here” so they forget the rest of the hard rules – something like “Do not pull faces at me behind my back, I have a fragile ego and a large gun.” Because remember guys – this is fun rules time!” I loved Alien War. Until the actors got bored and started sending it up. The third time I did it the alien was jazz dancing in the strobe. “Fuck that,” I thought aged like 17. “How do I apply?” It closed shortly after.

At Pets at Home the actor giving me the airlock wasn’t fun at all. She was really pleasant. But we were both seriously socially awkward. I think we are all going to find out we’ve forgotten how to do the in public stuff when the doors open.

Nobody was in the shop but staff. “STAY SIX FOOT APART AT ALL TIMES.”

While she’s talking, and taking deep breaths between sentences, the wind blows directly at my back, whistling round past me first and then past her face and into the automatic doors she’s protecting from the airborne pathogens. I’m aware of wind direction constantly these days.

I don’t think she’s an actor. Her delivery is earnest but poor, but from much of the immersive stuff I’ve witnessed that’s no indicator. But this isn’t bad emphasis and over-play. It’s just flat.

It’s fairly standard for the airlock character not to be an actor though to avoid using one of the core cast so they can stand in a circle together and do tongue twisters and talk about how hungover they are. It’s usually the front of house or spare bar staff or in emergencies the producer’s flatmate doing it with whatever shit they’ve cobbled together from the dressing up box as a costume.

The show itself was over before it began. “What are you here for,” she asks, trying to make it a personal experience for me.

“Um… Dead mice?” That’s all I’ve got. Talking to humans. I remember this from long ago.

She ushers me through the airlock… “Stand there. It’s 6 for 5. How many do you want?” “Oh er 12.” Then she’s got the curveball, to take control in her immersive world. “What size?” Fuck.

Of course dead mice come in sizes. This is what life comes down to. As per blogs passim, they’re 21% protein, 9% Crude oil. 67% moisture. The rest is God. But when we die will someone weigh us and put us in a packet with SIZE MARKINGS?

I guessed correctly on size. Extra Large. Greater than 31g of creature. Twelve of them are in my hands in no time. No less than 93 grams of creature.

Contactless payment, get the fuck out of this shop, job done. Not the greatest show in town but if you come home from the theatre with 12 dead mice in your bag then something has definitely occurred…

I just finished performing in the “eat me” puppet show and now I’ve left him in darkness to enjoy his taste sensations and get the most of out of the wee sleekit dancing defrosted beasty.

I slept a full night last night and woke up at normal time. I don’t want to call it too early, but at least that insomnia shit is over.

Early bed. Back to the tidying tomorrow. Before long all this tut is going on eBay…

I’m ashamed to say that’s only the second time in my life I’ve changed a loo seat. I hated it the first time, and got my fingers all bloody trying to wiggle some horrible nuts (waheyyy).

This time I was prepared psychologically for the difficulty of it. The nut was made out of plastic so less painful, but the screw was corroded metal so it wasn’t any more willing to do what I wanted it to. After destroying a pair of marigolds instead of my hands (you live and learn) I took a wrecking bar to it and broke the fucking screws. Very satisfying it was too. Then I used an impact driver to screw it back on, which is a little bit of a sledgehammer to crack a nut but this flat eats screwdrivers and I know where my powertools live.

Strangely they posted me two loo seats. I’ve only got one loo so the other one is surplus to requirements. It’s not the sort of thing you can resell on eBay… “One careful owner. Reasonably good diet.” If you’re broke and the one thing you need more than anything else is a good loo seat, let me know. I can think of a bunch of Central London pubs immediately where I’d be tempted to just mail it to them for free in the hopes I could use the only cubicle they have when they reopen.

Maybe I’ll put it on eBay starting at £3 plus postage and see who bites on the second hand loo seat market. Ha. If it sells on a day where loads of other stuff is selling it’s worth the hassle to lump it in with the rest of it.

At least I’ve successfully started the planned work in the flat, despite my new stupid handheld gaming device thing. Ironically the game that comes with it is all about working hard to make your home less of a shithole. I spent a large part of this morning pulling up weeds and picking fruit. Animal Crossing is the perfect lockdown game. You can’t really play it for too long in one day… You run around having banal conversations with saccharine manimal things. I’ve got a monkeydude and a deerwoman. It’s all presided over by a family of raccoons who must be on some sort of a racket as they’re available for you to bust in on them at any time of the day or night just to ask questions like “What should I do … ?” They never lose patience it seems.

The father is even building me a house overnight and he doesn’t mind when I pay him. I haven’t given him a penny yet. One of his kids’ll buy any old shit from me, even weeds.

I reckon me, the deer and the monkey – we’re all gonna end up on a slab with no kidneys with those raccoon twins standing over us saying “CAN WE KILL HIM DAD kill him dad ? ?”. But in the meantime I can go fishing or catch bugs or hit rocks with shovels to get iron ore and there’s even this owl who showed up this morning and wants to make a museum full of whatever rubbish I give him…

An hour of game admin. Minimum two hours of life admin. Repeat. It seems to be working. I had about 2 hours playing and the life work got addictive after lunch.

I’m not sleeping though – and this started before the Switch came through the door in case you’re wondering. Last night 4 hours total sleep 9.15 to 1.15 after absolute 0 the night before. At 1.15 I woke with my first proper uncontrollable nightmare for like 30 years – (I usually have a hand on the tiller). Sleep from thence? Not a chance.

Exercise will do it. Activity. Well… Tomorrow I’ve definitely got to go the the pet shop as I’ve run out of mice… And it’s the real world, not the game, where I’ve got a snake friend who wants a mouse in a packet. Perhaps I’ll be able to trade one for a fish with Tom Nook the raccoon. Or catch one in my net…

This is the raccoon. From a previous version of the game. As you can see you can design your own space. However you desire. Just like life.

I wonder if anyone will put in a carpet in lockdown…

Every twenty minutes throughout last night I popped up suddenly with another thought, another memory. Things I never said and should have. Things I very much said and shouldn’t have. Things I forgot and things I remembered. Old things. Dead things. Moments where I’ve found myself belittled or frustrated or bullied or grieving. Life stacks up with these things and occasionally in the night our brain decides to run a little slide show of fuckery.

My first night trying to sleep sober for a fortnight… My brain is a bastard. It’ll get easier, I know that from experience. But it’s nights like last night that make me want to slap myself. I eventually stopped trying at half five, switched on the light and started reading. Breakfast at six and now I’m just weathering the day like it’s jetlag in the hopes that I’ll get back into a good rhythm if I can make it to evening.

The incompetents at Hermes are trying to deliver a parcel bless them, so I’m waiting downstairs in case they’re sucked into a wormhole trying to get to my doorway. It’s a nice enough day and an excuse to be outside for a wee while. Never fear, I won’t go near them when they show up. I’ll just shout advice to them from a safe distance. Once, they left a package on the steps of the block next door when I was home waiting for it. Another time they dumped it unceremoniously in my neighbour’s garden and the caretaker found it. I know from friends that they often put your stuff by the bins the evening before they go out.

Yesterday I was in my flat all day. That’s what we do these days. It’s all the rage in April 2020, staying at home. Nevertheless Hermes sent me an email explaining to me how I wasn’t home, which surprised me more than anyone. I thought about leaving a note by the door today explaining that if they push the button with the number corresponding to the flat number written on the label then a bell will be caused to sound inside my home that will alert me to their presence. I decided against it in case they can’t read.

I haven’t slept so I’m cranky.

But it’s a nice Spring day. The caretaker is strimming the lawn where they like to leave packages. There are certainly more cars on the road than there were a week ago, and fewer people wandering aimlessly up and down the Embankment. It’s still pretty quiet though. I can stand in the main road and take pictures.

I’m checking my email every few seconds in case Hermes suddenly announce that the dog ate my package.

HERE HE IS. Diáktoros! The giant killer. Keen eyed emissary. Son of Zeus. Messenger of the gods! He’s left his winged sandals at home. He’s slouching out of his van like a potato.

I managed to get away without sniping at him because, fuck it, he’s working, keeping things ticking over, and delivering this ridiculous purchase of a Nintendo Switch with Animal Crossing to me.

Oh dear me.

I’m treating myself to an idiotbox with some of The Tempest pay cheque. And why not – YOLO (You only lockdown once) Or I sincerely hope that to be the case.

Fellow geeks ASSEMBLE: SW-5401-2012-4164