I do not care that my television set is broken. I do not care that the picture has shrunk to the energy-saving size of a matchbox. And neither do I care that the manufacturer’s guarantee ran out last week.
Apart from The Simpsons, there is nothing worth watching anyway. Yesterday, on the local news, the constipated presenter informed me: ‘That’s it for the lunchtime bulletin. We’ll see you at six this evening when we’ll be meeting a woman who owns a shed.’
I rest my case.
Having more free time does provide for one the opportunity to explore new horizons, but my initial plan to simply ‘do more work’, may, I admit, require a little tweaking.
It’s hard being a very creative individual; you are always ‘on’. It is essential to flip the off switch occasionally, and without the mind-numbing, anodyne televisual content to which I have become accustomed to viewing in the evenings, I’m afraid I may once again be tempted by the accursed bottle to help me calm my active mind.
Yes, I know: I could read more – but it’s hard to find a book that does not inspire me in some wonderful way. Reading a well written novel is very energising and always leads to me picking up my guitar and beginning to write new songs. Besides, books? I’ve read them all.
It’s amazing what you can find on the damp streets of an ex-mining village in the Kingdom of Derbyshire at seven-thirty on a Saturday morning. Revealed amongst the litter and detritus of the previous evening’s drunken bumping and brawling can be found many an unexpected item that surprises even a seasoned beachcomber like me.
Hiding in the midst of all the spilled chips, discarded pizzas, kebabs, empty beer cans, piles of colourful vomit, arterial spray and pools of sticky blood can be found valuable and often quite remarkable objects. One has to be constantly conscious and watchful, however, because something precious can be easily missed.
Today, for instance, I nearly walked straight past a small, golden bell balanced precariously on the edge of the kerb; a heavy and beautifully ornate little artefact that I fancy had perhaps fallen from some staggering female’s charm bracelet out celebrating on a riotous hen night. Further along the same road, I happened upon a paperback novel by Martin Amis. ‘Dead Babies – excellent!’ I told Audrey. ‘We haven’t got that one.’
As we turned the corner into Water Lane, my shoe nearly fell upon a forlorn and lonely, extra-large condom. Lying satiated on the pavement with its bulbous tip full and distended, it looked rather like an exhausted cuttlefish whose tasty services were no longer required. ‘We’ll leave that where it is,’ I said to my little dog. ‘We have plenty of those at home.’
If you happened to read Jo Beaufoix’s post that I mentioned yesterday, you would have seen her mention the book that we have written together, Peoms for Punky Pets.
I have already alluded to it before; it is a book of silly, short verse about pets and animals that is aimed at children – but with a very ironic element to it that adults will appreciate.
We are looking for an illustrator at the moment, before we approach any publishers, so if anyone reading this can sketch or draw . . .
As I am very busy in the studio today, I thought I’d post one of my ‘peoms’. This one is a little sad:
O big, bright beast of happy hues
What have they done to you, those fools?
Where do you hide?
Where did you go?
You wonderful, colourful buffalo.
I treated myself to a restorative shopping trip to Nottingham yesterday. Amongst other things, I bought an expensive French Connection sweater and House of Meetings, the new Martin Amis novel.
For some reason, almost every pretty woman that I passed gave me a cute smile or even went so far as to nod at me by way of an informal salutation. One or two even uttered a quick ‘Hi!’. (This latter activity is something of a rarity on the streets of Nottingham.) I checked my flies several times and gave my reflection a quick once-over in the window of Debenhams in case there was something comically wrong with my appearance, but everything seemed in order. ‘Must be a full moon,’ I muttered under my breath.
I decided to take lunch in the Bell Inn on Slab Square. I ordered a pint of bitter and a chip cob. As I was rifling happily through my purchases, I couldn’t help noticing that a trio of handsome office-girls who were seated on stools at the bar were constantly glancing in my direction and giggling. At one point, one of them – an attractive brunette with dark eyes and long legs – gave me one of the most alluring smiles I have ever received. I re-checked my flies and in so doing knocked over my glass and hiccupped loudly. I’m sure I went bright red as well.
Of course, they could have been saying to each other something along the lines of: ‘Look at that creepy guy sitting on his own by the window who keeps staring at us. What a weirdo.’ But in the pleasant little reverie I was enjoying on the bus journey home, it was more along the lines of: ‘I wish he were mine.’
On returning to the house, I opened a tin of tuna by way of a modest celebration.