December 12th, 2003


tony, you're a saint!

This very morning, returned to me, one pink folder containing exactly the items that I remembered, including a couple of weekly strip scripts I had completely forgotten ("Judgement Call" and "Please be Quiet"). Accompanying the folder was a note, which read:
I am returning this towel to you as my husband packed it by mistake. He was staying at Hornstone cottage as part of Mr B Skirrow's party.
To my fuddled mind this rose a storm of questions: Who was Mr Skirrow? Did any of our group come from Sussex? How soft and absorbant was my folder? Before I realised that the envelope had been reused and the note referred to a different item of lost property altogether.

So, now; I owe Collatia magic fish and wooden dormice, St Anthony several candles and Mr Usbourne £3.10 and a thankyou gift. Yay!
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    bjork - go to sleep

gathering the scraps at the end of the week

All week noting odd bits down while I panic more and more about the muck and dust in my house I just don't seem to be able to get rid of. Wisdom from the piles of spam: Microsoft windows necessity control your PC. I probably need to just throw away more stuff, but even throwing things away takes time. i know u sick, i have drug that can cure ur sickness. Against my expectations was rather angry that Grayson Perry won The Turner Prize; it felt like cozy outrageousness, nothing so safe as a happily married father of two who likes to wear dresses. It was Anya Gallaccio who lingered, because what she did left me looking differently at the world, seeing the scrapes left ivy in the pollutant veneer on overpasses, the tide-marks left by roadsweepers along the inner limits of the pavements on Cowley Road, the fallen leaves pressed into the grit of bus-lanes, all those marks left on permenance by things that are supposed to be momentary. The stains on my wall from all the mosquitos I killed. And the Chapman Brothers who should have won, of course. Want to greaten your genitals? I finally got sick of losing my breath whenever I had long conversations with my boss and took my deep, painful coughs and aching throat to the Doctors. I have a virus. I need to rest. No time to rest. Buy a home the for the Birds Keep thinking about words but only producing fragments (farraginous nonsense that passes for good practice need more space for progressive distraction that will actually advance my progress towards adequation). Looking through beautiful story books for gifts for neices and nephews; in the end decide they're too tiny for anything except Seuss board books. The only thing we had in common was tove jannsson and gin. So. Eventually I get onto publicising the Picky Picky Game, cue confused and critical comments from people who don't understand why it doesn't have a 100% logical narrative. trucks have plans, you should too Sigh. I want to work for this company.
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