This Is This

Yesterday’s post was a bit writerly. You know, all wordy, and I always hesitate when I have ideas to write about because they seem self-important, but I get around that by thinking I’m not trying to seem all clever, and this is a blog I write, so of course it’s self-important. But I don’t want people to read yesterday’s post and think I’m some kind of rocket surgeon.

This has been a difficult week. Getting into work has been hard. Fucking hell, getting out of bed as been hard. What’s the winter going to be like?

It’s a cliche, but adversity always lights the creative fuse with me, and this week I’ve had it in spades. Buckets and spades. I’ve built sandcastles of trouble and waited for a tide that never came. Maybe that’s because adversity is a river, a thought which brings its own comforts.

Even getting to work was hard this week because of the tube strike, which meant that Londoners had to remain above ground and look at their city while they travel to work. (Apart from the employees of London Underground) But being overland’s maybe not such a bad thing, because it’s a beautiful place in the right light.

Metropolitians have a relationship with their cities like they do with their parents. You accept them for all their faults because you’re not perfect either, and no one forces you to stay. Plus, you get a living out of it through money and shelter. Not sure where I was heading with this.

Tube strike, anyway. People in Hammersmith were actually getting on my bus as it dropped me off, using big commuter coaches like mine as an ingenious way of getting across town, all clambering up the steps in desperate need of transport, like the fall of Saigon or something.

Seven thirties looked like ten past nine because so many people were driving in.

Tomorrow’s weekend song is for anyone who has been feeling less than the sum of their parts, parts they’ve misplaced or think they’ve lost forever.

Have a good weekend, you. I am seeing The Police.

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