Just Awful

I knew something was wrong when I made my way back from the Trench having lost vast sums on the Grand National. First there was one, then another, then a whole cue of them at the cash point. This turns out to be the 'Bexhill Tweed Run' people, currently camping out with their vintage bicycles on the green infront of my window playing Vera Lynn at considerable volume. What the fuck is wrong with these people is very hard to fathom. Julie, on encountering this bunch of twits, nearly wet herself, since of course, I wear tweed, and she still can't stop laughing. Me, I'm horrified. They wear little bows at the top of their plum coloured plus fours and probably work in 'New Media' and probably think spending the afternoon on my green is 'jolly nice'.

But I am sitting in a nice new chair, actually not exactly new, 1960's Dutch, Jonathan assured me. Every time I go to the White Horse and Lily's dancing things go a little strange, in this case me making off with valuable items of designer furniture from Jonathan's gallery after she had engaged me in a conversation of sorts about phallocentricity in Freud. No matter the limits of this conversation given the fact that she periodically danced naked infront of me, it was at least better than my morning at the RCA, where the work was dreadful, and the students clearly offended by my coments, and the food, even in their poncy senior common room, disgusting. Whatever, I ended up laden down with vintage chair and lamp to get over it all, but at least not vintage 1914, like those twats over my balcony.