I’m less than satisfied with the event-record ratio I’ve managed on this blog lately. For simple practical purposes, I can’t seem to remember what I do without writing it down any more. More significantly, there’s a backlog of things I do actually want to write about, and the neurotic symbolist in me wants to get them written down before the year ends.
I want to remember the frustrations that built up to an unhappy last Thursday, and also how prolonged ranting to a very patient Russ (over Berwick Street trawling
[conversational excerpt, paraphrased –
Me: Look, I know this sounds pathetic but I really know what will cheer me up right now will be buying an album. I really want to bring a new album home with me to listen to tonight or I’ll be really depressed.
Russ: Here, I’ll hold those you’re carrying already so it’ll be easier for you to flick through the racks],
jerk chicken at, er, Mr Jerk, and coffee in the smoke factory that is the basement of Costa on Old Compton Street) reminded me of that long-running question: what did I do to deserve him, and how do I bottle it?
I want to remember amazing crispy pancakes at Song Que with Alec, suddenly looking around stunned to see all the chairs upside down on all the other tables, the proprietors (and their kids) patiently waiting for us to finish, and cheerfully wishing us a Merry Christmas as we stumbled out a little embarrassed.
I want to remember a cozy Saturday afternoon finishing The Hours (wonderful), swaddled in a duvet while rain pattered on the skylight, alone but not lonely.