I woke up yesterday thinking it was Friday. Now that it is Friday I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m in some kind of extraordinary limbo. Still, I have money to spend on Farrow & Ball ‘down pipe grey’ this weekend for our living room. Plus I have cockney-type banter to look forward to with the builder who is coming on Saturday to widen the fireplace. Not that I’m a Cockney, I’m a Mancunian and we have our own backslang.
I was stood up by a mate last night in an old boozer in Walthamstow. Still, it gave me 68 pages worth of Mercier and Camier. I have a fundamental love for the work of Beckett and I cannot find fault in it – if there is any fault it’s my ‘obsession’ with this man’s work. I read and re-read him, I study him, searching each word, each repetition and utterance no matter how askew or meaningless. And then, at night, under lamplight on the makeshift desk at home (the 'study' isn’t ready as the building work in the room it is to be in has not yet started) I read the first volume of his letters and bemoan the fact that I’ll never write letters quite like that (I’m just not interesting enough – let alone intelligent enough – for that sort of thing!). But, anyway . . .
Stuff:
My favourite blog is: A Piece of Monologue
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""A story assembled from everyday objects, unassumingly and quietly, that stuns and horrifies by increments...The Canal may look, at first glance, like a love story, but it harnesses the power of parable." John Wray, author of Lowboy.
