The Susan Hill book turned out ok, even if there was a sudden ‘oh shit, I better introduce who the murderer is’ a bit too soon for my liking (I’m a big fan of the old Scooby Doo / Agatha Christie style of un-masking). It was also one of those annoying thrillers that the publisher pads at the end with the first chapter(s) of their next installment. It’s something I hate more than celery and as any fule should already know from this blog, celery is not so much the devil’s own vegetable, as a vegetable designed to perform oral torture on oneself. In. Oh. So. Many. Ways.

Life is in a bit of a holding pattern, prior to all kinds of mentalism. Change has been a near constant for the past decade. Which brings its ups and its downs. And its ramaladingdongs. I don’t think denial figures greatly in the catholic ouevre. In terms of being explained. Not experienced.

Anyhoo. One of my last Saturdays in Cambridge. For who knows how long. And my abiding memory will be of change. Of Eastern Europeans – one of the girls from AMT coffee riding around on her bike, two russian Hiltons arguing over a swiss roll in Marks and Spanks; kids playing football in the playground outside, screaming and swearing at each other; CB4 ‘tourists’ fighting each other on the late night train home to Bury/Newmarket; an Asian guy watching telly through an open window; Spanish girl on a bike gibbering away on her mobile; one of the neighbours vacuuming his car for over an hour; a new block of flats on my route to my local gym; kids on mopeds racing each other; Co-ops; organic butchers selling frozen rainbow trout; gay couple trying to get the other to wear the sunglasses; brutalist hairdresser.

Work is…. well. One of the beauties of t’internet is I can’t really talk about work. It’s like Fight Club. But with more salty snacks.

Needless to say, Monk Quixote is buried at the moment. I feel confident that some interesting stuff is ahead, perhaps once my ‘home’ ‘working’ environment is finally sorted. When all is said and done, there are a lot of Reasons and Stuff as to why Shit Happens. And more often, why Not a Lot Really Happens.

Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *