everything has reached critical mass in the upstairs department and the screws are lying in the trough. just one hanging on the wall and the oversized square one languishing around my feet as I try and wheelie over the double-sided christmas cards to where the telecaster is gathering dust by the city hall and the roger mcgough parcels. I expect that if we ever get to open the white one then the teeny bits inside will flagrantly implode like the bad tangerines in the fireplace, where a half-eaten pie has finally seen the light. If I had a car I’d drive over to the beer garden and gently scrape the key down the black slk while mrs horse is dumping the gravy into the orange monster.
gonna go to jeremy’s tomorrow night and then we’re off to the playhouse where andrew will laugh like a well-travelled hyena for 2 hours and the massed middle classes will trip over the contradiction of charity and chavity but ah well, it’s christmas, so we can have a sensibility day off. as long as he doesn’t do that one with the girl from yarmouth too often. after that, crondall will suffer the consequences and I might even stay overnight like some edwardian coachman in the cellar, conversing with the staff, hoping helen mirren pops out of the kitchen with an egg whisk and a stern looking brow, wiping her hands on the corner of her apron and flashing a boot.
but for now, it’s the lamb lies down on broadway and a small matter of business requirements before I get the scenic down anglian autos to be told that negative tread on the radials is actually illegal and you can’t even go to tescos without stumping up 200 big ones for 4 cross-plys or something that sound like I should actually get it from homebase and be making those shelves in the office with it. I’ll probably just nip to the city and hang about a bit.