A needlefelt on the lanyard of doom

Lulu spent the morning shampooing a stair carpet she seems to have wormed from a skip. It has a thin pile and the low buff hue of something festering in a wino’s beard, but I have no mind to carp. Whatever the fit of intrapersonal geometry in which I bought The Vapours, it now seem too big without Lulu knuckling athwart it. I am condemned, after everything, to company.

She has strung a line from the scullery window to a faux-Edwardian lanyard in the garden’s side wall, and there her carpet hangs. The only salve for my skinned aesthetic sense is to know that Holloway in November is no time to dry needlefelt. With luck it will hang there till August.

The Horwin slid a note through my letterbox claiming to have called and missed me. It is a wicked lie; I heard her wheezing on the pavement. “Have signed David Morrissey to read the audio-book,” it read. “Rather pleasing, don’t you think?”

Is it? Do I? If my erstwhile bandmates tire of slobbering at the teat of unearned royalties and abduct some biddable stenographer, I suppose we shall be treated to audio-books from Andrew Marr, Mickey Rourke and whom – Yootha Joyce?

The first two I could bear, but let them not sully Yootha. Dear God, let them not sully Yootha.

Borset has arrived with eggs. A.A. Gill has dubbed me Pooterish in the Times. Each is as depressing as the other.


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