Missing.

Sitting here, eating a pot of chocolate ice cream, Missing

It suddenly dawned on me that 'missing' is just another word for looking back.

It also means insecurity.

missing is just having a hole to fill.

Like a grave.

Spiders from mars.

I am reminded of a meeting years ago.

I had met a young man in Marine Ices in Camden, his name was David Jones but he told me he was thinking of changing his surname to knife (like in Bowie I said) he thought about that.

Anyway I took him to see my old pal Siggy Spielman who lived up the road. I told him about Siggy before we got there:

'Siggy plays guitar'. I told him

I also told David that Siggy reckoned he had a spiderplant from Mars, judging by the way it grew.

'Are you ok?' David said.

Hunky Dory David. Hunky Dory.

Eurotrash bag lady, desire and Tennessee.

Tristan sends me a text message, I am the victim of textual harassment. He thinks he is clever.

He sent me a poem. I am tempted to send him a blade from a grass cutter (poetic in joke)

Oh glorious eurotrash bag lady

My heart soars, a skylark.

Under sumptuous silks from Dior

Lie grubby pants from Primark.

I knew at once you'd be trouble, bubble of bliss be it may

Bubbles burst...

I'm too depressed to write any more and cannot be bothered to trawl any more wheelie bins of desire.

'A wheelie bin named desire' Now there's a thing. I remember telling Tennessee a long time ago that it would be a good name for a play. He just kept looking at my biceps and sippin his julep.

'You could be a contender'. He told me.

Portobello Road.

I have no idea what was going on here but they look happy.

Hooray, high fashion and tarted up bars.

OK sorted.

Having picked up the new computer courtesy of good friends we adjourned to the Portobello Star; a recently refurbished Portobello Road boozer. Normally I am anti the stylification of local boozers but the Star as it was was un-enterable to all but the most hardened of drinkers and it's new incarnation is welcome.

We discussed the impossible nature of 'haut-couture' shoes of the Lady Gaga variety currently filling the glossies.

I would like to say that I am left cold by it all...

Strangely I find myself hot and bothered by the alien footwear.

But not as hot and bothered as Lady Gaga's feet.

I took myself home for a steak pie and a large vodka.

Disaster

Beer all over my computer.

Funny that!  I was celebrating.

I will be quiet for a day or two until I resolve this.

I've seen the future.

i have this idea for a futuristic movie thats why i'm using lower case and bad punctuation because its the future and the world has gone to pot

anyway it is about the last englishman to have a job

he becomes very famous for being the last englishman to have a job

he becomes so famous that he is in constant demand for interviews and public appearances

so much so that he is sacked for absenteeism

he is replaced by an ironic imigrant

A fine photograph.

Poetry in an unsatupon chair.

I once came to the conclusion that a chair, when not sat upon is a meaningless object; a non item in search of something to do.

It dawned on me that, if I wrote something meaningful on the chair it would create a purpose for the unsatupon chair. I wrote a schmaltzy, cheesy poem (about loss of a woman) on strips of paper then pasted them onto the piece of furniture.

It worked. When sat upon the chair was a chair, when not sat upon the thing was a poem.

The problem was that each time I read the poem(which was often) I would burst into tears. The memory of the lost love was too much.

I eventually chopped the chair up and fuelled the fire with it; another use for an unsatupon chair.

I wish I had said that.

We seek the teeth to match our wounds.

Ken Tynan.

All gong and no dinner.

There are many ways to skin a cat.

But why? What's the point, there are no uses for a skinned cat that I know of. You cannot even eat them.

And then it dawned on me: It is the skin that is important. the packaging is the desirable thing, the contents are just packing material and worthless.

Retreat and jelly sandwiches.

Rusty telephoned this morning from Cerne Abbas where he is in retreat.

Retreat from what? I asked him.

From the truth. He replied.

He went on to tell me about a pub in Brinkworth that did a great peanut butter and jelly sandwich (he had had one for lunch on his way down there). I never could understand the concept of that particular Americanism. I told him.

That's rich coming from a native of the land of marmite, he said.

'But i'm a Dutchman rusty.'