Had an exciting day of marketing strategy brainstorming yesterday and sat in meetings agonising over names for projects - Progression? Ultimate Image? Turntable Ninja Warrior Saturday School? Mrs Miggins' Monday Night Music Shoppe for Motivated Young Moppets? I Don't Know What I'm Doing Here But At Least I'm Not Taking Drugs? And then went schmoozing at the Royal Court, mingling in the bar with people I used to work with, then more mingling in a nearby bar with people I used to write with. Went home exhausted but fully networked. And am suffering from text thumb and over-emailing eye strain. It was that kind of day.
Currently reading: The Tiger in the Well by Philip Pullman, Not Wanted on the Voyage by Timothy Findley, Christie Malry’s Own Double Entry by BS Johnson – read the book, see the film and take up your very own brand of accountancy. I couldn’t recommend these more; I’ve tried to but ended up choking on my own enthusiasm.
Currently listening to: the sound of my CD player’s awful whirring, clunking and clicking death rattle.
Currently watching: the leaves falling off trees in a melancholy, consumptive Russian playwright way, and longing for a Moscow Mule… I used to really enjoy those.
But due to the inevitable callousness of a materialist, petty bourgeois society, and the very turning of the world which persecutes my happiness, hounding it into horror as this globe swoops me relentlessly from day to night to day again, I have never regained my beloved, my sweet, clear and ginger-ly refreshing alcoholic pre-mixed drink in it’s cunning little copper-coloured bottle, that saw me through a year of my hedonistic youth. I haven’t seen it anywhere. It’s the bitter tonic of adulthood from now on, my friends; I must progress in to the shadowy future accompanied only by the medicinal reek of gin and the occasional glass of wine with meals. Oh, to be young again, oh, to sip the delights of a bottled alcopop as innocent and unashamed as a naked Eve bringing the apple to her lips…
I wish I was 18 again.