(no subject)
I hate it when i have lots of things needing attention and my mind just sinks into torpor at the thought of filling in forms. I wish I had the luxury of not working full-time. I was in on Sunday and i've been in work today as well, on the bank holiday. May day has certainly been a worker's holiday. There has been Vic around both days for company at least. I'm not sure I make good company myself at work since with the floor manager off I feel I have to make an effort at being in charge and am stressed as a result. On the way home there was a young child eating his fries at the bus-stop, tipped the rest in front of his baby sister who chewed on them. He then ripped up the packet and dropped the bits one by one on the pavement, and stood up on the bench in front of the timetable, staring and getting in the way of anyone who tried to look when the next bus was. Once on the bus, he wandered to the back on his own and spent most of the journey home repeating again and again the racial origin of anyone he could see who wasn't white on the bus. Which is I suppose the sort of thing you would expect a child of seven or eight to do sometimes, but the point of this tirade is that his mother didn't do a single fucking thing about it. She didn't even look ruffled. She thought it was just fine.
Finished Dandyism today. Not much to report, to be honest. I thought there might be some tales of unlikely extravagence, but the best bit, so I thought, was the description of Beau Brummell when he was crippled by gambling debts writing to beg a loan from an rich aquaintance with lots of investments in moneylending. Goes something like "Dear Henry, will you lend me two hundred pounds until tomorrow? All my money is in the three per cents. Regards, George Brummell." The response, cruelly: "Dear George, I would but the problem is, you see, all my money is in the three per cents. Regards, Henry." So not much special there. It did remind me, as many things do, of Monty Python though. The poet Ewan McTeagle.
To Ma Own beloved Lassie. A poem on her 17th birthday. Lend us a couple of bob till Thursday. I'm absolutely skint. But i'm expecting a postal order and I can pay you back as soon as it comes. Love Ewan.
Beautiful.