Fragmentary Day

I stopped blogging for a long time, I don’t know why, comfort perhaps. Stimulus to restart? “Holocause is Coming”, “All Jews Must Die” and “Juden Mord” written in chalk on the road outside my house in Golders Green – not targetted at me, but at the local community. I thought our area was wonderfully mixed – Hindus, muslims, jews and Eastern Europeans – turns out someone disagrees.

Uncomfortable with fiction where necessity is for realism.

I’m reading Norwegian Wood at the moment. Haruki Murakami is really the paragon of lonely, alienated writing – makes me feel cold and alone just reading his wonderful communication of bachelor tedium.

Glad at my suppression of overly-snobbish disgust instinct at African woman carefully-but-gruesomely handlessly-eating fruit from a plastic bag and spitting pips on tube this morning.

Got scammed on my company credit card – smooth, fluffy feeling of calmness has been replaced by cold depressed anger.

Oh, god, driving lesson. Turning into a free-travelling grown-up is so much work, especially in these dark days.

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GriddleOctopus

There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.

One comment

  • You’re learning to drive? Why is it that so many of my friends can’t drive or don’t have cars? Very odd.Anyway, I feel your pain. I’ve been paying for Fleur’s driving lessons, and after nearly 30 lessons and £600, she still hasn’t mastered the three-point turn. Not exactly what I’d call a great return on my investment. Even so, I’m still probably better off than if I’d invested it in the stock market…

    Like

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