There is mizzling rain in London, like a sort of gentle joke. I have been stretching out gloriously across the city, popping up for hot buttered rum or deep fried squid in the most unlikely of places.
Taking place indoors have been a range of other activities – mainly dancing around to these:
The stomping, slightly apocaliptic rock n roll of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Bad Moon Rising
and the similarly delightful, but otherwise disparate, spooky by Dusty Springfield:
I would rather like to be described as a ‘spooky little boy’. As terms of endearment go, its delicious.
When not doing those things, I have been experimenting with ‘green smoothies’. I would talk about it, but suffice to say, raw foodists lie. That stuff tastes shit.
Oh – an incredibly talented friend has a poem in this magazine:
Go and buy a copy.