DREAM: 18th November 2011

(Don't remember)

DAY: 19th November 2011

Phone alarm goes off at 8.45 am. No bark from the punchbag dog of mourning. Must be off weekends.
Expecting the plumber at 9.
Andrew is here and I fall back to sleep.
Plumber is two hours late and finally texts to say he won't be here until tomorrow.
Watching a BBC morning cookery show aimed at young adult men. The plainclothes chef with tousled bed hair makes a pie. Looks good. Then breaks pieces of salmon into it. Ruined. Andrew tells me the chef lives around here.
Watching BBC News. Colonel Gaddafi's son has been found and arrested. Which is code for 'mutilated in a town square.'
During meditation I can hear Football Focus wafting through the air and it invades my consciousness. Something comforting about listening to people waffle on about football; all the hand-me- down cliches and mind numbingly wooden punditry. A place were you'll never hear the words: terminal, inoperable, famine, war torn, cleansing, multiple stab wounds or sectioned. I will pass away full of uncertainties, all I will know is the buses and trains will still be running and that Arsenal will be playing week in week out.
The advertisements for toilet roll are like the advertisements for joining the army: they say everything but the word 'shit.'
I could listen to the Twin Peaks theme tune all day everyday.
I speak to Milly, my old housemate from Montreal. He is a music maker, producer, chef, photographer and God knows what else. He is a walking cottage industry of talent. He tells me he has just been signed by a German record label. I knew it would only be a matter of time.
The Dog of Infinite Sadness barks next door and I am filled with a sense of reassurance. Now if I could only have this sense of reassurance between the hours of 12-6pm that would be just swell.
Moved chewing gum from phone pocket to the newly established, chewing gum pocket.
Walked past the leather sex fetish shop down Holloway Road. Wondered what it would be like to walk in and ask for a kite. Or true love.
Man on motorised wheelchair goes passed me. The expression on his face gave me the notion that he was going through his own unique, personalised ghost train.
Man cycles past me whilst pushing an office chair.
In Tesco and see a young man with headphones in, holding a bottle of vodka and dancing. How do I sign up to be his friend?
I haven't washed my face. Yet.
A blond girl is having a really loud, obnoxious conversation on her phone beside the herbal tea. She just really wants her friend Johnny "to just like chill the fuck out."
A really sincere woman, rocking on her heels, is selling Big Issues with a picture of Gary Barlow's face on the front. People walk pass her like she's selling piranha's.