I11

Oh, I don’t feel well. You could say I feel positively unwell if that wasn’t an oxymoronic construct, but then I usually feel like a pretty moronic construct so there you are. I’m so tired but it’s not just that. The beloved went drinking but I woke up feeling like I had her hangover. Actually, I didn’t wake up at all. Not like I usually do. You could say I had a lie-in but it was less than that. The long-awaited holiday weekend is upon us but I feel lousy. Dog tired. Sleepy. This may have made me trawl my way around the murky depths of geekdom. The more I see of the world the less I feel part of it. The boots are made to fit. My “Full Moon” arrives and is a thing of beauty. Eighty pee and traveled half way around the world. Where’s the profit in that? How anyone could doubt our visit there is beyond me. Beyond faking. They’re idiots. The last “Hour” is stylistic but fails to live up to its promise. Somewhere in there is a fabulous series waiting to get out, but that wasn’t it. If it had been a longer series would it ever have been brave enough to just transmit a 1950s style episode in black and white? “Huffity Puffity, Ringstone Round”. Was it really just a period version of “Studio 60” anyway? “Beautiful Downtown Burbank”. Wilfred now just scares me. Everything scares me. I look across and fear I’m going to be left alone again. That scares me more than you could know. Twenty Twelve is funny but hits the same beats. Maybe the world outside is flooding my brain and trying to tell me something. Torturing my soul. How to get out of events without causing offence. Tired. Dozy. Dopey. I have to sleep. I need to sleep. No, more than that, I need to feel clean again. Forgot to take the pills this morning. Reading about Gemini spacewalks and Apollo accidents. I seem to have been on that book forever. Chipping away. Chopping up vegetables but the main ingredient isn’t there. Mental shopping list. Just write it down or you’ll forget. Improvise. Eat. End of “the Chocolate Factory”. “Fringe”. “Nelson to Seaview, come in Seaview…” the end of “Thunderball”. Connery ends five of his six “proper” Bond films in a boat, you know? So much to do today and none of it got done. Interesting that you can spot a 1960s boat just by the trimmings. Why aren’t film stars allowed to look like real people any more with all their flaws and blemishes and body hair? There’s a storm coming and its name is Irene. Hammond sitting in front of a blue screen in a room with no atmosphere trying to be amusing and failing. Ah Mels is Melody is River. Hitler is locked in a cupboard and stays there. “Apparently there’s this thing called summer when things grow, and a thing called winter where they don’t. Who knew?” Why do they try and make Rajesh Koothrappali seem such an unpleasant and obnoxious character nowadays? Jarvis never ages. If you pick a simple look for your hairstyle and clothing when you’re twenty and don’t follow fashion, you’ll always look the same and avoid having as many of those stupid photographs of yourself in your albums. All the musicians look like Primary School teachers nowadays, but the John Deacon always did look ever so slightly uncomfortable with it all. F-1-11. The world keeps turning and all those people seem happy but I can’t relate to the lives they lead. I don’t understand it. I feel apart from it. Removed from it. One day I’ll just be removed and it won’t make any difference to anyone very much. I can’t concentrate. The brain stumbles on from thought to thought and they all hurt. Wading through treacle. Wading through jam. Am I getting a cold? Do I have a cold? Where would I get a cold from? The limbs ache. My spine aches. The fatigue is crushing and overwhelming. Rest, I need rest. But the brain is ticking. Tocking. Ticking and it all feels fuzzy, detached, removed. There is no pain I am receding, my head feels like a balloon. There’s another bloody great spider to capture and remove. How do they get to be so big at this time of year? Into the soup carton and out into the cold wet night with you. Stagger to bed. Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire. Go to sleep, young man. Go to sleep.