And the more behind I am the harder it seems to play catch up
Life has stolen me from my journal: no great loss to the written word, but my records of things becomes patchy. Perhaps the point of this journal is to attempt to curtail the dementia that is, no doubt, creeping up on me in my dotage. But then if an event doesn’t jump to the front of my little memory box without some external prompt, was it of such significance that it’s worth storing away, anyway?
Little things that have kept me busy included dinner at BAFTA dahling, for a friend’s birthday. It was shockingly cheap in there, hence, some amongst us become shockingly drunk - well not that shocking, all things considered. The Contessa called in for a night or two, en route back from N. York. She’d had ample fun there, but an accidental encounter in The East End procured an excess of sufficient merit to postpone her return to Barcelona. This gave more opportunity for us girls to go play. Having done East, we went West: our old stomping ground, with all its worst aspects further amplified in our absence. A quiet, post-market, coffee was quickly converted to the start of a more up tempo evening, as a face from lost nights joined us, only to drag us off screaming, to drink and dance under The Westway. Everyone there was a little too contrived: girls with legs almost as skinny as their high‑heels, hobbled inelegantly past in luxy, print dresses; while banker boys tried to brush off their Bugsy Mallone countenance. We occupied sofas with the adults, and random danced and gave no fuck, politely rejecting numbers that came from perfumed men. Heading home, we couldn’t help but fill hands with fresh scented flowers stolen from hedgerows - naughty kids, though not as naughty as might have suited, if standards weren’t set so impossibly high.
Last Friday night was Horse Hospital, a space I love, with its upstairs cobbled floor and history hanging in iron rings from the walls; but I’ve neglected it of late. It was the launch of a Journal, ‘Strange Attractor’; one of those act of love projects - you can tell from the font. Everyone I met seemed to have contributed in some way, and it must have been a good crowd, to keep me out so late when so tired.
Tonight I’m off to the ‘Indymedia’s Middle East film festival’ , to see a film on Balata Refugee Camp, from where a friend has just returned. Hopefully, a good start to a holiday weekend, during which we’re due to get SUNSHINE.
Whoops; I forgot to add: I am auntie again. Little sister dropped No 5: another girl. So far, her first name isn't decided upon, but her middle name is Aurora-Rose. I'm terrible about babies until they become something more than a sucking, screaming, shitting, squirting accessory of their parents and start to become little people (when I say terrible, I’m actually quite competent with them; I’m just not hugely interested).