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But I may be the only person to know this. Sometime in the small hours my scrambled brain yanked me awake with the compulsion to look out of the window and there it was, just a light dusting. I sleepily thought that it would be gone by the morning and yes of course it was; just a grey dingy damp garden full of the rotting remains of dead flowers to look out on as I tried to scrub away the nightmares (unjustly imprisoned by a military cop who really loved his flamethrower; about to be rescued by a revolutionary with a back-mounted acid/defoliant spray and ugh arrrgh blechdge horrible). So tired, too! I should never go to bed early, even when I'm almost too tired to live. I just wake up feeling even worse ... I wrote a comic about it (Late Last Night) and now feel much better because hey! That's how it works but it might not make it against stiff competition this week from the strip I wrote upstairs at the Port Mahon called If my life were a movie (right now it would be a montage scene). And it is:

Eating yummy food in the Oxford Blue while the George Best docco plays out on the footie big screen /cut to/ thinking at around midnight, ooh, we've not watched any of that Inu-Yasha DVD yet /cut to/ staring in despair at the huge pile of stuff under which the minicomic masters lie buried, somewhere /cut to/ snickering seedily over Life in a Sex-Mad Society with fellow bookshop volunteers mr_snips and oxfordhacker /cut to/ sketchpad scrawling and buying beer for penniless musicians in an upstairs room on the first night of extended opening hours /cut to/ night bathing in television light muttering incoherencies deep into the small hours /cut to/ shivering on the Ikea forecourt trying to stop two massive trollies of flat-pack furniture and fairy-lights from rolling down a mobility slope /cut to/ chasing away my grey head with rose-petal tea, sweetened with honey, wondering why it's a healthy choice /cut to/ dancing upstairs at the Zodiac to Mr Scruff and thinking yes, this is the festival experience I've been looking for since April /cut to/ monday morning.

Good morning. No it isn't.

Comments

( 6 worms — Feed the birds )
buddleia
28th Nov, 2005 13:23 (UTC)
And good morning to you, too. If my life were a film it would have arty, no-score scenes of me walking up the steps to Waterloo Bridge, with the occasional sped-up flashback to show the drunken night before. Midgets could be involved!
cleanskies
28th Nov, 2005 14:58 (UTC)
drunken night with midgets?
please elaborate!
buddleia
28th Nov, 2005 15:23 (UTC)
It would probably be a Lynch-esque flashback.
There would be swirly lights and pointing and laughing at me in my Saturday night mask, followed by a suspicious glare from a very very short woman in a fur coat by the second hand book stall on Monday lunchtime.

Actually, I think I'd rather have rosepetal tea.
charleston
28th Nov, 2005 13:33 (UTC)
night bathing in television light muttering incoherencies deep into the small hours

sounds like a caption to some of my favourite photographs
ceciley
28th Nov, 2005 14:55 (UTC)
Ohhhhh, Lucy was saying it snowed last night in English this morning and everyone was like "DON'T BE STUPID"...
cleanskies
28th Nov, 2005 14:58 (UTC)
lucy speaks truly
I corroborate her.
( 6 worms — Feed the birds )