This holiday I read two crime novels and another part of clive james autobiography. As ever I ended up identifying with the author in a grandiose near deluded way. Granted I have never used a dunny, been to Oz, cambridge or fronted sever tv series. Still I felt echoes of resonance. The man is a fool like me. Channeling his energies into too few projects always prioritising those which pay the least. He has turned procrastination into an art form. He has also suffered from male pattern baldness mood swings increasing girth and an ability to perform bacchanalian acts of excess. The end of this book sees him sober. He seems to be funny without trying and I am trying without being funny.
Its friday night in calafell jean is present shopping and I am not present.
The local police have just pulled up. Policia local, like rome there seems to be a plethora of law enforcement agencies.
No comments:
Post a Comment