Hurtling through the countryside again, past miles of farmland and the occasional nuclear power station, after an afternoon excursion to Newcastle to talk about transport security.
A three hour meeting and six hours of travel always makes for feeling jaded and in this instance, it’s been compounded by the fact that I couldn’t sleep last night. Lay there fidgetting and imagining I needed the toilet for a couple of hours before evenutually passing out at five, only for the alarm to ring three hours later to remind me to get up and catch my train.
This kind of insomnia hits me about one night every three months. It doesn’t seem to be related to having stuff on my mind (or not especially so), just a perverse joke chucked in to keep me feeling paranoid for most of the following day.
As a result, thinking back about actions of the past few weeks and getting nervous about the prospect that for I while now I’ve been taking myself dangeriously seriously. This is not a good habit for a serial animaliser. If you can’t laugh at your foolish behaviour and rejoice in the diminishing effects of bumping into old girlfriends, the prospect of marriage going on on all sides and late night expeditions to sleazy old cheese bars….. Well…. it could be pretty much terminal losing your sense of humour in that game. Side effects, part positive are that I currently seem to have the single minded purpose of the very drunk and the very religious, but that in itself can bring its own problems. Much determined to get home, get some rest and launch a few new schemes destined to bring trouble, exhaustion and most importantly, a high level of amusement, to fully re-balance the scales.
Don’t talk to me about paranoia. In fact, are you talking about me? I bet you are you swine, concocting some evil plan to snide me in front of all that matter. I knew it, you bastard. I could see it in your eyes the very day we met. Doom. Nothing but hatred and malice.
Nice one for posting, nonetheless, I keep coming to bolo in the hopes of reading something new, thinking I should get out of my mental pit and scribe something. Then I read the amusing tales of other boloites and go back to the land of non-productivity, drained after the day’s mindless paper filth. It’s alright though, vengeance is just around the corner. Eye holes cut through the Daily Mail, beady red peepers spying on me and planning my bloody demise.
Still in London on w/e 8th Sept, with the Mrs now, if you’re about. Then Brighton on 10/11 (company bollocks) before going back to the White Cliffs country to start the home fires burning once again.