Pictures on my wall/Read it in books
It's still only Thursday? Excellent. Having an unstructured week makes the time pass more slowly.
Thus far I have: Slept about the same amount as usual; bought a walking stick and a breadmaker, thus bringing the middle-class edifice to its knees; had to explain Moorcock to an excitable curry-house audience; cycled across Bristol in straight lines for a laugh (At least I know the location of Bristol Central Lawn Tennis Club now. Should I be among strangers at a party and the question asked, I can leap forward with a location-based answer) and then walked several miles home with a puncture; written some words; had occasion to use the internet for the purposes of making enlargements of holiday snaps and, um, some other stuff.
A notable and tiresome failure has been the idle quest (a chap must never give the agents of commerce the idea that their existence is anything other than a vaguely necessary evil for keeping the proles at bay) for black boot-cut jeans. Not one blasted shop, boutique or hut within the environs of that benighted pit up at Cribbs Causeway sold such things. Shops are just rubbish and must be stopped.
Via the well-controlled Making Light (who had wrabbed his norman lunch) we find a Wisconsin Scrap Trip and a farting rainbows t-shirt.
How many of y'all are going to be far to uberg*th to be spoken to in Leeds this weekend and thus save me the trouble of making smalltalk? (The malevolent sorts will get in my face, just to watch me squirm, obv.)
Thus far I have: Slept about the same amount as usual; bought a walking stick and a breadmaker, thus bringing the middle-class edifice to its knees; had to explain Moorcock to an excitable curry-house audience; cycled across Bristol in straight lines for a laugh (At least I know the location of Bristol Central Lawn Tennis Club now. Should I be among strangers at a party and the question asked, I can leap forward with a location-based answer) and then walked several miles home with a puncture; written some words; had occasion to use the internet for the purposes of making enlargements of holiday snaps and, um, some other stuff.
A notable and tiresome failure has been the idle quest (a chap must never give the agents of commerce the idea that their existence is anything other than a vaguely necessary evil for keeping the proles at bay) for black boot-cut jeans. Not one blasted shop, boutique or hut within the environs of that benighted pit up at Cribbs Causeway sold such things. Shops are just rubbish and must be stopped.
Via the well-controlled Making Light (who had wrabbed his norman lunch) we find a Wisconsin Scrap Trip and a farting rainbows t-shirt.
How many of y'all are going to be far to uberg*th to be spoken to in Leeds this weekend and thus save me the trouble of making smalltalk? (The malevolent sorts will get in my face, just to watch me squirm, obv.)