In which my nature is subdued to what it works in
October 21, 2013

Like a svelte Northern Proust, I am always in of an evening.  What’s the good of a home if you are never in it?  “Home, Sweet Home,” that’s my motto, embroidered on the dusty brocade of my heart. Our dear friend Danny may drop in without ceremony; so may Alan, who lives in Hampstead.  Poor Lulu and I are as pleased to see them as we are to see anyone, which is hardly at all. They pass the time, however.

But Lulu and I can manage to pass our evenings together without friends.  There is always something to be done: a tin-tack here, a Venetian blind to put straight, a fan letter to pin up, the precise particular idiocy of an NME hack to pin down. Lulu is not above scrubbing a boot or two.

Dear friend Danny dropped in, greeting me with a hearty “Wotcher, cock.” Taking this at first for an instruction, I uttered a strangled cry and protected my infernal regions with a rare Billy Fury Parlophone. I was still vibrating with genital alarm when Danny took his leave, citing the terrible pen of paint.

“Pen?” I ventured.

“Pen and ink, mate. It stinks, dunnit?”

And with that he was gone, vanished like a wisp of hope, albeit a beefy one.

The Torture Begins
October 18, 2013

My dear friend Lulu and I have just been a week in our new house, “The Vapours,” Brickfield Terrace, Holloway—a rank six-roomed residence, not counting a basement which emits a faint aroma of boiled fungus, with a front breakfast-parlour.  We have a little front garden; and there is a flight of ten steps up to the front door, which, of course, we keep locked with the chain up. Alan, Danny and our other intimate friends always come to the little side entrance, which saves poor Lulu the trouble of going up to the front door, thereby taking her from the work of cataloguing my extensive and occasionally insalubrious collection of pop trousers.

We have a hideous little back garden which runs down to the railway. Judicious placement of a trampoline should allow me to hurl myself directly from the bedroom window and into the path of the 9:25 to Barking with comforting alacrity, should my fierce habitual desire for self-annihilation ever overcome my equally habitual but thus far even fiercer ennui.

Should ennui triumph as usual, however, this journal will at least chart my descent into madness. But will that be enough, O Posterity, to stuff your gaping maw? Will you want details too?

Very well, then. Details you shall have:

It rained. Breakfast was a gruesome kipper. The dank day stretches endlessly ahead, vulgar, languid, inane.

Satisfied?