I cannot sing the praises of NHS doctors, surgeons or nurses enough, even with a big wad of cotton wool stuck up one nostril. They were, infact, a complete delight, and even admitted that because of the drugs they would inevitably have to give me to get me through the ordeal with the knife of no small proportions, that I would feel 'rather euphoric' on waking from those deepest of anesthetic sleeps. It was as if they were a special breed of nice, some breed apart from the world I am used to. Now I stare at the squirrels playing on the balcony with delight, and am enchanted by documentaries on the beavers of Yellowstone Park. 

Before I go (and by the way I love doctors and surgeons) I have to render this picture to the world. It has me and Matt White (architect) on what is mutually agreed to be one of the loveliest days of our lives, where we hung around for long periods in a sun drenched Las Vegas car park, then finally helped Julie photograph the Penthouse Club, which was empty of dancers of course. Above there is a classical column, a fire escape, a VIP rope, a marble floor, a shop display and breasts as big as the both of us. I consider the composition profound for our age.

 

I'm going under the knife tomorrow, admittedly not a very big knife, but it matters to me- remember Tony Hancock. However, at least my 'Pre -Op' mental status quickly excused me of another potentially  godawful meeting this lunchtime. You know I have never known a MEETING to have achieved ANYTHING in thirty years of university life (it is also my birthday tomorrow- so I know that exactly- it IS thirty years).

Instead ~I made for the White Horse to sooth my soul and found the remarkable Franca look as if she were suspended perfectly horizontally by wires naked from the pole- and then slipped down it imperceptibly like a magician. It's a very secure place the White Horse (for me) and full of wonder and I thought 'best to have a couple of drinks now rather than later', and 'weren't/arn't Journey a crap rock band'. These are the thoughts that flourish in such circumstances as the White Horse. Dhalia came over and chatted to me about her stalker and her work backing up at university reading 'recreational studies' at Tin Pot University. That's the way it is- and that is civilization.

Hospitals on the other hand, are full of mad people especially the doctors and, god help me, surgeons. Who in their right mind at eighteen years of age says 'I want to be a doctor because I'm bright'. It must be the cruelest of delusional fantasies inflicted by 'The Machine' on our young. Surely when they are gaping in to whatever they have to gape into for the millionth time they realize they've been conned. Now all those of my generation are suddenly subjected to continual probing, gaping and fifteen page questionaires about our lifestyles and it is not pleasant. Well I can tell you if I could say I ran five miles a day and drank one glass of wine with dinner and thought fun was climbing a fucking fell hopped up on vitamin tablets in the rain while happily playing fucking badminton with my colleagues over weekday lunches and eating nothing but mung beans whilst furiously banking- I'd be FUCKING INSANE. 

I may be the worst patient ever. Julie has the whisky on ice for when I get home.

Of course, dear readers, since I've paid my bills and may never return, I should point out that being an architect may be the second cruelest and delusional fantasy for young minds, but if you can learn to learn from life itself, not so bad a subject at all. 

Goodbye to all that.

I like Garrows Law (BBC) on a Sunday evening. Sunday evenings are for life mournful events, and the triumph of justice over avarice is heartwarming, even if this production is another piece of pure theatre manufactured by the 'machine'. I really don't like this 'machine'. 

Late last night, those of us nearly fifty, nearly sixty and nearly ninety joined together as a family as we do once in a while. The drink and conversation flowed until we knew issues of some importance would inadvertently be discussed. I was doused as a Marxist, Julie too, my father was quiet, even he sees trouble at the mill he used to ascribe all hope to, my mother plaintively longed for us all to join the church. My brother said the church was evidently missing the point in all and everything- when did you last hear a parson deliver a sermon on global warming or heroin clinics (good or bad?) It was at once healthy and surprising and scary. Middle class families or course do their best not to discuss anything for years and years- it is their very definition. 

I bought a tweed flat cap when Julie and I escaped to the garden centre this morning with hangovers. I needed head cover in the rain, but I'm rather pleased with it.  

I look like either Chas or Dave.   

Saturday afternoon. Julie's downloaded Spotify or something, then some other thing where we can get any film we want. What an incredible situation. Of course most people now take it for granted, but I can tell you that when she asked me what I'd like to hear (from the past) and I said 'I'm in Love with a German Film Star' by The Passions, and up it came, the first time I'd heard it in thirty years, I was overwhelmed. That was me! That record epitomizes me at that time- rather foppish, rather romantic, rather inclined to desperate unrequited love and the romance of place and time and weather. Big black overcoats were required to seal in our sensitive souls. A love of that twinkling guitar! I wonder where the Passions are now, and I want them to know they did something really really good for at least one person in the world, they insulated him when required. Oh so did Robert Wyatt ('Shipbuilding' 'At Last I am Free'). 

Julie's turn, and fabulously she chooses 'Peaches' by the Stranglers. I say- 'My God!- I've got you!- all in your Doc Martins and donkey jacket. 'Yes' she says 'Yes!' Doc Martins and a donkey jacket. 

I think that's love.

These dancers are brilliant! Here they are demonstrating against Tessa Jowell forbidding just about everything. What they do is honest work. So much work around us is clearly not honest work. People should be clearer in their thinking. Photo by Julie last Thursday in Parliament Square.  

That Guinness ad is really offensive. To imply that by drinking Guinness you are somehow saving the planet...are you kidding me? They have always ran really epic campaigns, but this sucks. the STUPIDS have clearly taken over. I bet they are under twenty five. Probably that's who they're hitting at with the ad. Well you're all daft and I feel old.