Look at this brilliant-green spongecake I’m about to eat.
I’m not sure the photograph does justice to how tremblingly, retina-searingly green it is, but if you imagine a plutonium halo around it you’ll get the idea. It looks like it was baked in the reacor core at Sizewell B.
Ah, well. Here goes. Yum-yum-yum.
I’ll report any residual superpowers to the diary tomorrow. On the other hand, if I don’t make an entry, it’s probably because I’m out for a walk on the surface of the sun or something.
On that train last night, Laura and I spent some time discussing whether I’m “a neurotic, a pervert, or a psychotic.”
I’m sorry to say this wasn’t idle flirting. Laura is an expert in Lacanian analysis and those are the three personality types Lacan describes. She sees herself as a neurotic and believes that I’m one too.
She’s probably right but I try to convince her I’m a pervert anyway, since this is surely the best of those three things.
“You used to collect stamps,” she says.
“But for pleasure,” I say, “for pleasure.”
It’s the latest instalment, I fear, in trying to convince the world (and myself) that I’m more Muskrat than Hemulen. (These are the Jansson personality types I’m into.)
On the way home from Edinburgh, the train is frighteningly full and some drunk boys are “tanning” their Buckfast. They shout “Fuck the passengers!” and “Fuck yer Festival!”
It’s not even the last train home. We’d torn ourselves away early in the hopes of avoiding this all-too-predictable Hell. Thankfully, nimble Laura runs ahead and snags a four-seat table for our party. This is more than just a miracle: I never assume sitting will be possible on a festival train. My habit is to stand in the vestibule, cling onto a pole with my bum cheeks, and to hope against hope that there aren’t so many passengers that my face ends up squashed against the glass.
The relief of being able to sit under these conditions–and with friends instead of strangers!–is more blissful than I can describe. I cannot believe our luck and I barely notice when we pull out of Waverley ten minutes late.
Even so, the hot train is rammed with human meat. The standees puff and blow and roll their eyes. It’s awful. The train even feels heavy and I imagine the back bumper screeching against the rails and leaving sparks in our wake.
There’s a passenger announcement at Croy (a station whose name I always think sounds like a small tinned fish), to apologise for the delay. Astonishingly, it explains that the train managers had wilfully departed late to “let as many passengers board as possible.” What?
There’s a chap wearing a kilt at a train platform this morning, and Samara’s delighted when he produces a mobile phone from his sporran.
Life in Modern Scotland!
“Maybe it’s an Aye Phone?” I offer.
She stares silently at my face all the way to Edinburgh.
I’m reading the Edgeworks edition of The Harlan Ellison Hornbook.
It probably has more front matter (introductions, dedications, author’s notes, copyright declarations, etc.) than any book I’ve ever seen. That’s if we don’t consider Tristram Shandy to be an entire novel of front matter or indeed The Book of Prefaces to be, well, a book of prefaces.
Anyway, after a page of gorgeous five-inch-long, hoary old URLs to Ellison-related websites, there’s this:
Was he right? My gut says “yes” but my head cranks out a ticker tape of hyper-rational excuses and exceptions.
I’m enjoying the book, by the way; it was in the batch I borrowed from Unclef. I’m forming an opinion that Ellison was more “alive” than anyone currently living can claim to be alive, “all this electronic crap” likely being part of the reason for this clear and sudden loss of gross global consciousness.
There was some sort of mix-up with our weekly grocery order and this morning’s delivery includes forty easy-peel oranges.
I’m not sure what to do with them all. Email me if you want an orange and I’ll send you one.
Today I made a one-minute video to represent my book at the publisher’s sales conference. It’s one of those things that shouldn’t–mustn’t!–take much time but inevitably does.
No matter how strict you are when going into the job–“I will not spend more than two hours on this”–it was always bound to devour the whole day.
It starts with the discovery that you’re out of practice at speaking to a camera or ad-libbing at all and so it takes you about thirty takes to get it right, even though all you’re doing is saying “Hi, it’s me, and here’s what my latest book is about.” Why is that so difficult? It wouldn’t be hard if you were explaining it to someone in the pub, so why is it such a rotten thing to get right when you’re on your own in a room with a recording device?
A good recording is ruined because you realise there’s a moth on your glasses or that a lamp in another room casts a weird glow against a wall and onto your face, making you look like you’re telling a campfire ghost story. Oh, and the Swiss cheese plant you’ve been using for background colour seems uncannily to be doing the bunny-ears thing behind your head.
After three or four hours, you finally have some serviceable footage. But then you need to edit it for time and quality. You cut the “ums” and “erms” and a bit where you nervously swallow, giving the game away that you’re not a professional speaker at all but some sort of carbon-based creature susceptible to peristalsis who probably even has an entire digestive system and lives with all the disgraces such a thing would suggest.
Somehow, all of your pruning and worrying makes things worse and your image on the screen begins to look like a glitching Max Headroom and you just have to start again.
After a while, you’re so tired of looking at your own mouth that it’s giving you the creeps. Is that even a mouth? Is that what people look at when you’re facing them? It’s not so much the kissing and pontificating vehicle you’d always imagined was on the front of your head but some sort of fissure, like the kind of thing you’d see on a fluke worm or a nematode.
The moon is rising but you press on regardless and emails are coming in to ask where the heck your video is and you idly consider attending the the sales conference in person so that you could just explain yourself.
Finally — finally! — you get something together that looks like a passable sales video. It’s twenty seconds too long but sod it you’re only human and your dinner’s going cold.
You set the thing to export in the highest available resolution, not because you’re mad for resolution or anything but because you imagine that’s what a professional video spod would do. In truth, you don’t know what “resolution” even is aside from that a high one is how the Marvel Cinematic Universe is presented and so that’s probably what people expect to see, right?
While you’re eating dinner, you’re wondering all the while if the export has finished yet and also how you’ll beam such a monstrously large file into a conference room in Munich anyway.
You go and check on it–tentatively tapping the track-pad to wake the screen up without accidentally erasing everything–and then, when the video masterpiece fades into life, you see it:
The basket of laundry in the background.
Fuck. Everything.
As I opened my umbrella this morning, a moth flew out of it.
My trousers, dear diary, have fallen.
To moths I mean.
And not just any trousers. These were the long-loved, Italian wool Cad & The Dandy trousers. They were something of a souvenir of the days when I could afford such things. I’d had them for over ten years and I’d been planning to pass them down to my children or, failing that, to someone else’s. Or maybe to the Robert Wringham Memorial Library and Museum.
But now, all is lost. They’re in the outside bin now, riddled with minibeasts, and waiting for Stinky (our local tramp and victim of nominative determinism) to dig out.
Clearly, our moths are snob moths, for they have not touched any of our other clothes. Only the finest dining will satisfy this winged Hun.
Well, I hope you are satisfied, moths, because this means War. Capital “W” and everything.
I claimed upwards of thirty of their number today, just stopping short at mounting their heads on teeny-tiny pikes.
I vacuumed the floorboards–thoroughly–to rattle their cage a bit. Then I squashed any that happened to flutter up into the room. Then I set the pheromone trap, which has so far claimed five. Then, after thoroughly checking for other damage, I zip-locked anything that might constitute a food supply. Then I raided the DMZ (by which I mean the hall closet, which I thought the moths mutually understood to be neutral territory). Raiding that closet, where so many of them hang like bats during daylight hours, was like that bit in John Carpenter’s Vampires where they tear the walls off the undead’s dosshouse to bring them screaming into the sunlight.
As night falls, I find myself bare-chested and bellowing into the stars, face smeared red with the blood of my enemies. Or, as the case may be, slightly dusty with their wing powder.
Once, in London, I stopped to briefly look at the houses of parliament. An American tourist was squinting up at the clock tower with a strange look on his face so I asked him what he thought of it. “It’s not very big,” he said.
I’d never thought of “bigness” as a quality the clock tower was supposed to possess, but later it occurred to me that “Big Ben” might in fact promise bigness.
It left me wondering if tourists come from all over the world to visit what I see as a symbol of democracy or Imperialism, expecting to see “a big clock.”
I’m working on a travel book at the moment, part of which involves transcribing and learning from the travel journals of a friend, Wentworth, who has been to all manner of places including Myanmar, Iran, and North Korea. From Washington DC he writes:
I have read complaints that the White House is underwhelmingly small but I found it to be a rare example of restraint in the USA.
There it is again! The tourist expectation of bigness. I now wonder if an assumption of bigness comes from a reverence for powerful institutions (since my sample concerns only UK and US government buildings) or if a sense of awe comes, like an optical illusion, from sheer distance or the promise of pilgrimage.
Answers on a postcard.
Side by side this evening, Samara reads Samuel Pepys while I read Ongoingness: The End of a Diary by Sarah Manguso.
Manguso:
To write a diary is to make a series of choices about what to omit, what to forget. A memorable sandwich, an unmemorable flight of stairs. A memorable bit of conversation surrounded by chatter that no one records.
Pepys, meanwhile, has noticed that wigs are in vogue and he instructs a barber to shave his head so that he can then (get this) go around London wearing a wig made from his own hair. Pepys tells his diary how delighted he is that nobody can tell, so authentic is his wig. I’m not sure why covert wig-wearing is his response to fashionable, conspicuous wig-wearing.
When my wife points out that she’s reading a diary at the very same time that I’m reading a book about a diary, we pause so I can write my diary for yesterday to complete the cycle: writing, reading, analysing. When I post, Samara checks to see how it looks on her phone. “It’s real!” she says.
I think the current diary mania in our house began when Peter asked a few months ago why I like diaries so much. I hadn’t noticed (but he had) that I read a lot of diaries. Since I hadn’t noticed, I couldn’t answer but I have been thinking about it since. This evening, Manguso’s book comes close to hitting on an answer I can identify with:
I often prefer writers’ diaries to their work written intentionally for publication. It’s as if I want the information without the obstacles of style or form. But of course all writing possesses style and form, and in good writing they aren’t obstacles.
Another friend said, I want to write sentences that seem as if no one wrote them. The goal being the creation of a pure delivery system, without the distraction of a style. The goal being a form no one notices, the creation of what seems like pure feeling, not of what seems like a vehicle for a feeling. Language as pure experience, pure memory. I too wanted to achieve that impossible effect.
Poking around in the University gift shop with Alan today, he hands me a leather key fob and asks that I decipher the embossed text on the back of it. “Is it a name?” he asks.
I squint at it and read it aloud:
GENUINE HIDE LEATHER, it says, MADE IN SCOTLAND.
“That’s what it says on your arse isn’t it?” I say.
Well, one of us had to. It was hanging there in space. Like Alan’s arse.
I learn today from All Killa No Filla that Patrick Mackay’s nickname was “The Psychopath.”
Well, that’s hardly good enough is it?
Usually, a serial killer’s nickname is location-based (e.g. “The Beast of Legoland”) or it comes from their victim demographic (“The Drycleaner Murders”), murder method (“The Fuzzy Felt Killer”), or origin story (“Son of Scrabble”).
I know serial killers don’t line up to register their name at some sort of Companies House of Murder, but calling yourself “The Psychopath” is like going around as “The Killer Man” or something. Just Rubbish. Note to all serial killers: the nickname should distinguish you against the other serial killers, not the general public.
Hey, if your thing was strangling tourists at Loch Ness, would you be called “The Loch Ness Monster” or would you run into trouble with the Companies House of Cryptids? Genuine Question.
An email pops into my inbox concerning “medical tattoos.”
At first I can’t parse what a medical tattoo is most likely be. The two concepts aren’t at odds exactly, but one rarely sees them side by side. Are people having Grays Anatomy-style heart diagrams in place of the traditional love hearts now? Are stethoscopes the new horseshoes?
The email is not spam. It’s from the Ectodermal Dysplasia Society (I have ED and I’m on their mailing list) and they’re asking for research participants. Medical Tattooing seems to be geared towards the correction of burns or scars or skin discolouration.
I have some mild eczema scarring on my back and I vainly consider having it dealt with through tattoos. Before I know it though, I’m considering the merits of just getting the full Red Dragon and being done with it.
If nothing else, I’d be the first person sporting that particular tattoo to also use the phrase, “in for a penny, in for a pound.”
On the way home, some cops are bundling a drunk into their van. It’s a struggle and one of them shouts, “DO NOT ATTEMPT TO BITE A POLICEMAN! DO NOT ATTEMPT TO BITE A POLICEMAN!”
The clear, officious language of “attempt” and his deploying of the third person contrasts endearingly against his use of the word the “policeman.”
“Police officer” would have been a better fit. “Policeman” is what a seven-year-old wants to be when he grows up.
I find myself wondering if now would be the ideal opportunity or the worst possible moment to try and steal a helmet.
To a double bill of The Omen and Omen II at L & G’s house. I’m happy to find my ideal film-watching scenario ready and waiting:
I recognise the lead actor in Omen II (1978) as William Holden from Network (1976). I spend the rest of the film wondering about the choices that led him so quickly from working with Faye Dunaway in a high-quality Oscar-winning satire to flinching at crows in a clumsy horror sequel.
I read later that he’d been considered for the Gregory Peck role in the original film but he’d turned it down because he “did not want to star in a picture about the devil.” You can imagine him throwing his morals in the bin after witnessing the success of the first movie and signing up for the sequel even though it didn’t have the original screenwriter or director or any of the original cast on board. It’s a wonderful “lose-lose” decision. It’s like watching someone pay money to eat snot.
After the screening, we chat about comparable sequels, Exorcist II and Look What’s Happened to Rosemary’s Baby. Not everyone in the room has heard of the Rosemary’s Baby one but they accept its unlikely existence at face value. I see if I can get them to believe in Don’t Look Now Too: Look Who’s Not Looking Now but it doesn’t fly.
“Flat Inspection,” says a note on our calendar for today.
I really do prefer to rent a place instead of own one. What would we do with a house? Paint it, I suppose. Insure it, probably. Big deal. And yet there’s the odd moment I curse being a tenant, Inspection Day being one of them.
The inspection itself is little trouble. It can be done in ten minutes and really just involves an inspector looking for signs of damp or subsidence, and marking a few things off on a clipboard.
What’s tricky is how the inspector never sees fit to buzz the street-level intercom like any other contractor. He lets himself into the building using the letting agency’s keys, and knocks on the door of the flat, which doesn’t give one a lot of time to pull one’s trousers on [one].
Taking a nap or drawing a bath are obviously out of the question on Inspection Day. You have to sit around in presentable clothes, not masturbating, and longing for his knock so you can get it all over with.
And–get this–if you don’t answer the door quickly enough, he’ll let himself right into the flat. Once, while Shanti was visiting us from Canada, he unlocked the storm door and stood peering through the stained glass of the interior door, providing poor Shanti with more nightmare fuel than she’s probably allowed to take back on the plane. None of us had heard his knock.
Why can’t he buzz like anyone else or, if he must insist on entering the building like a big-shot, how about ringing our doorbell? Or knocking loud enough for the human ear to detect?
There’s four of these intrusions a year and, since we’ve lived here for three years, our letting agency has visited us no fewer than twelve times, which is probably more times than any one of our friends has ever visited.
The inspector tends to turn up in the morning, presumably operating on the principle of a dawn raid, but today, for some reason, this is not the case and I’m left on the edge of my seat, unable to concentrate on my work or to take a bath, for fear of his bursting in with an airhorn.
So where is this guy?
At 3pm, I check the letter from the agency to make sure the date on the calendar is correct. “09/08,” it says, “/2017.”
Ah.
I must have looked at an old letter when updating the calendar.
He’s not due for another month.
Well, it’s nice to have something to look forward to, isn’t it?
To a hipster barbershop where, while trying to ignore on-the-nose jukebox classics, I’m given what is probably the best haircut I’ve ever had.
It’s incredible. They’ve made me look like a young Humphrey Bogart. I walked home along the backs of the swooned.
“Good news” you might say, but, as I look in the mirror, I understand with a sudden jolt that every time I’ve been on stage, every time I’ve been photographed for an interview or a book jacket, every time I’ve dressed up for a wedding or an important meeting, every time I’ve tried to look nonchalant while signing a proffered Loose Egg, and even that time I auditioned for Mastermind, I’ve looked like a shit-haired twat.
Mum calls and mentions some app-based frustrations. Microsoft Outlook is asking for an update but, when she goes to allow it, she’s prompted to delete Facebook and a bird-watching app.
“That doesn’t sound right,” I say, and I suggest uninstalling Outlook and re-downloading it from the app store, fresh.
She’s not keen on this plan as it’s likely to mean re-entering her password.
“It’s the dark side of the web,” she says.
“No it isn’t,” I say.
“It. Is,” she says.
I was a little tired yesterday and didn’t feel like going to our Monday-night pub quiz, so I suggested that Samara go along without me.
It’s rare for one of us to attend the quiz without the other. Last time, it was I who went alone and, when people asked after my wife, I told them we’d got a divorce and that she was never coming back. Jonny immediately asked me for her phone number.
Last night, I suggested that Samara play the divorce joke again and that, this time, she should immediately give Jonny my phone number.
In the event, she just told them I was feeling cranky after being startled by a seagull.
At 5:30, I’m squawked awake by an astonishingly loud seagull.
After half an hour of lying in the semi-darkness and thinking about seagulls, their being harbingers of climate crisis, their association with rubbish dumps and consequently our grubby city, and wondering why the council don’t get up off their arses and shoot them all with GUNS, I decide to just get up.
Rarely am I awake so early without also needing to catch a plane, so it’s all I can do not to start hunting around for my passport.
Not yet desirous of my cereal, I decide to get the jump on a few chores. I do the washing up, shave, place a grocery order, fold laundry, write my diary. At 8:00, I can’t believe how successful I’ve been today, and with so much time ahead of me for the squandering.
I can’t help wonder if maybe this is how things should be, and that the hup-hup-hup-with-the-lark, thousand-words-before-breafast writers were right all along. Has a noisy seagull changed my life? Christ, I hope not.
I’m reading the published diaries of a writer whose work I love dearly.
Twelve years in, he’s not once written an entry on my birthday. I mention this to my wife.
“It’s because he hates you,” she says.
Today I walked from our home to Loch Lomond. I get these urges sometimes.
Google Maps had promised a sixteen-mile journey but I walked closer to twenty thanks to my wrong idea that I should to head to the river to get onto the route I had in mind, when I could have just walked west and saved about an hour.
I’m a little out of shape and it took everything I’d got to complete the walk. It stopped being fun around the sixteen-mile mark, and now my legs throb like a pair of throbbing things.
By the time I got to Balloch (the town on the closest shore of the loch), I was more than ready to hop onto the train and go home. But a nerd’s completionism had me walk as if possessed for an extra third of a mile down to the bonnie, bonnie banks so that I might dip my hand in the loch water.
Clearly in a weird conscious state from the too-long walk, I ran the loch water through my hair like some sort of pollution-augmented baptism. I have superpowers now, which is annoying really as I had my heart set on a quiet life of reading and writing.
The sunshine baked me for much of the way but, as you can see from this photograph of the endpoint, the moody clouds closed in, finally bursting as I got home.
At one point on the walk, I saw a future echo. And I was met at the finish line by a lovely lady:
On Monday I went in for a redo of the allergy test. A nurse applied the sticky, circular patches to my back and then on Wednesday, as instructed, I peeled them off.
Today I return to the dermatology clinic to hear the end-of-week results, though I’ve already seen in the mirror that the only reaction I had was not in response to the allergens we tested for but to the glue they used to apply the patches.
“Congratulations, you’re allergic to surgical gum!” is hardly a useful result. Why do I always confound science? In high school I spent a semester twiddling the wrong knob on a microscope and looking backwards into my eyeball.
I’d been planning to write in my diary today that “the little red circles of eczema make it look like I’ve wrestled a giant octopus.” You know, because of the suction cups on the tentacles. But now I can’t do that can I?
A neighbour knocks on the door at 9:30pm. He’s locked himself out and has no phone or wallet or anything. His flatmate is in Canada and there are no other keys in the world aside from the one held by the letting agency, which is of course closed.
I summon an emergency locksmith and we drink tea and make chitchat while we wait. He says he’s looking forward to seeing some free comedy shows at the Fringe. “Oh, you should give me some recommendations,” I say, and quickly coming to my senses, “actually… no, don’t.”
When the locksmith arrives, I buzz him in but he doesn’t speak into the intercom so I can’t be certain. It reminds me of the joke from Police Squad:
Who are you and how did you get in here?
I’m a locksmith. And I’m a locksmith.