November 8th, 2004


middle-aged women keep on walking into me

and my legs are cold.

Do you think there'll be snow this Christmas?

Oxford is horrible today; there are no wearable shoes anywhere (current shoe crisis now means my feet are bruised and blistered) and the roads are sticky with black slime. In the centre of town, the christmas decorations are full of revolting clowns. On Cowley Road, nothing, not even any Diwali lights.

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I spent the weekend as much in London as was practical, using all the bus-time to read a heavy book rendered portable with a kids' halloween rucksack, trying not to boggle as everywhere I looked livejournallers and friends lifted out of the background detail of streets and gigs and galleries like odd 3D effects; constructs of words and pictures and comments into people, performers, conversations. It was pleasant but unsettling, like a dream where everything is nice enough, but moving too fast.

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The robot cats do not have your interests at heart.

Though causing nowhere near the mess achieved by some people, the damage done by one misplaced mazda does rather leave me wishing that if people feel they have to commit suicide they would do it quietly, at home ...

... and just as I'm sinking into misery, comes the welcome reminder that while sometimes you don't recover from nasty injuries, sometimes you do.

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