Inane Fumblings In Deepest Darkest Africa
What? A selection of new clothes? Oh dear.
It has suddenly crossed my mind that to have ones private letters or diary published post-humously would rather sour an afterlife if one existed, or something akin to the ghostly existence of a Will Self novel. Not only would the poor grammer and spelling mean that it would be entirely re-written in legible English by a Kilroy-lookalike publisher and the turgid annecdotes would remove any fond reasons in the mind that anyone had for reading the publication, but it would mean that someone dear to my heart has sold my words for a pittance which, although worth a pittance less than was paid for it, is taking advantage of the fact that one is dead. But I need not fret,as I am neither going to be widely known by any more than seven people, nor have a diary.
What a pile of bile. Just like my rubbish about letters before. And yes, I am actually still dipping in and out of "Letters To Milena". Which I read in the bath yesterday, and it was nice.
I thought last night was good, especially as I am prudishly sad enough to have appreciated not paying to get in.
Dad is comming soon, which I hope to enjoy to the full and which I hope others shall take the liberty to enjoy as well. I shall no doubt regret saying this.
Am I boring you talking about my dreams with very little actual detail? Not especially? I'll take that in a positive way. Well, ok then, all I'll say is that last night I looked in the mirror at one point and was horrified to discover that several parts of my face were very hairy. I woke up in my boxers in the dream though. Yum.
It has suddenly crossed my mind that to have ones private letters or diary published post-humously would rather sour an afterlife if one existed, or something akin to the ghostly existence of a Will Self novel. Not only would the poor grammer and spelling mean that it would be entirely re-written in legible English by a Kilroy-lookalike publisher and the turgid annecdotes would remove any fond reasons in the mind that anyone had for reading the publication, but it would mean that someone dear to my heart has sold my words for a pittance which, although worth a pittance less than was paid for it, is taking advantage of the fact that one is dead. But I need not fret,as I am neither going to be widely known by any more than seven people, nor have a diary.
What a pile of bile. Just like my rubbish about letters before. And yes, I am actually still dipping in and out of "Letters To Milena". Which I read in the bath yesterday, and it was nice.
I thought last night was good, especially as I am prudishly sad enough to have appreciated not paying to get in.
Dad is comming soon, which I hope to enjoy to the full and which I hope others shall take the liberty to enjoy as well. I shall no doubt regret saying this.
Am I boring you talking about my dreams with very little actual detail? Not especially? I'll take that in a positive way. Well, ok then, all I'll say is that last night I looked in the mirror at one point and was horrified to discover that several parts of my face were very hairy. I woke up in my boxers in the dream though. Yum.