I’m sorry there’s been no blogs for a while; too bloody miserable by half. Bet Bukowski would have blogged solidly every detail of such an enforced lay up, lyrically recorded every spasm. Picked up Jeffrey Bernard’s Low Life, and even he manages to make hospitalization in to something, even if it is somewhere between Carry on Nurse and Dad’s Army. I couldn’t get anywhere near either, I was glum beyond glum and hospital was nothing like either anyway, it was a humanitarian disaster. Now I’m sick of ‘Hitlers Generals’ and even ‘Wheeler Dealers’ and I drink tea.
Still I am back at work, the lecturing bit anyway, I reckon I can avoid the dreaded meetings for quite some time yet, and a nice Turkish man comes to pick me up and whisk me away again in his person carrier with great efficiency and all for the money I’d usually spend in the pub. Instead I glide like royalty in a smoked glass goldfish bowl through the city streets. Without a pub to sit in I could be anywhere. And I lecture sitting down, which when I saw Dave Hickey do it, doubtless for similar reasons, can be pretty cool, but still exhausting.
There is a great fear lurking, having worked so hard on my pleasurable past, what will constitute any kind of pleasurable future? About this one has to be almost devoutly sanguine.
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