A beast with six jowls
November 14, 2013

A burst of unseasonal sunshine having dried Lulu’s fawn carpet, its installation loomed hideously imminent. A cupped ear at her bedroom door caught low regular grunting, one of her ambitious repertoire of nocturnal noises. If David Byrne gave her a cheese sandwich and a duvet he could keep Luaka Bop afloat indefinitely. She was asleep. I had time to act.

I was dousing the malodorous weft from a watering can in the shape of an elephant’s head, part of the plethora of zoophilic tat abandoned by a previous occupant I can only ever picture defecating into a pith helmet and weeping for the Raj, like a Neil Tennant capable of emotion, when a dim gleam in the japonica caught my eye.

It was a gnawed bone. I was off the oak-stump and up the stairs with it before the spouting trunk had hit the grass. Some kindly providence of the senses stopped me on the threshold of Lulu’s room, however. I believe I literally paused mid-air and settled, like a leaf. The grunts were faster now, and they had been joined by a high jubilant whimper. I waited breathless. Monophony, and Lulu might have been having a nightmare. Polyphony, and the nightmare was mine. Dust danced in the sunlight. My heart slowed. The sounds edged into each other and finally, terribly, overlapped. Lulu and Borset, for I assume it was he, have gone carnal.

I saw my bone float to the landing, then somehow I was in the kitchen wreathed in the steam of a camomile tea I had no memory of brewing. I was gulping it directly from the pot.

Can an ear unhear? Lord, Lord, I hope so.

A needlefelt on the lanyard of doom
November 6, 2013

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.