I know I remembered my dream this morning. I remember remembering it. And memory’s infallible right? I remember someone telling me that once…


When I was a kid I remembered every dream; the one about the black hole of Calcutta, the one about the omphalos and the dinosaurs with men’s heads, the one about the ditch and the maze made out of family members, where someone was chasing. They were ripe for analysis, heavy with psychological fruit. But now, when I have most need of blessing, wherefore can not I pronounce ‘Amen’, why no dreams?

Sorry for the slow posting, but I’ve been locked out of my flat for two days.

We’ve all done it, walked out of the door and realised our keys are inside. But what do you do when the only other keymaster is away, uncontactable, doubtless irritated to fuck if contacted, and hasn’t said when he’s getting back? And your landlord has more chance of running a cambodian concentration camp (not for ADD sufferers we might add) than answering the phone?

Of course, you wait a night then borrow a step ladder and break in.

Well, after wading in sandals through inch-deep pigeon shit to steal a too-long stepladder from one of the vents that dot your building. And finding you can’t get it back through the window (begging the question, how the hell did it get in there?) Then realising you might not be able to get back through the suddenly-high window either…

So, anyway I borrowed a step-ladder, went to my neighbour’s flat (who lives beneath me) and climbing up into my flat.

In full view of CCTV, Bath Abbey, and the main shopping street.

Would you be surprised the police popped round to say ‘hello?’

Would you be surprised to find they thought I was a burgular?

Would you be surprised to find they had no record of my living at this property?

Would you be surprised to find that my flat looked like it was in the process of being robbed?

Would you be surprised to find that it took me ten minutes to find any I.D.?

Above all, would you be surprised that the other keymaster got back fifteen minutes later, and found me frantically cleaning the flat, inculcated with a terrible fear that the police were going to come back for tea and biscuits and find certain ediblets that might be on the wrong side of the law. This is all conditional, you understand?