The Subconscious

So just as I'd assured myself of my sure fired rationalism (see below) what happens? I'm crocked by my subconscious that's what happens, and crocked badly, I suffer 'an attack'. I try to blame it on the stress of that bad art evening (but if bad art was bad for you we'd all be dead) I blamed it on the exertions of The Renaissance (Friday's nine o'clock) or Henri Lefebvre (Friday's three o'clock), and an up and coming dental extraction, I even try and blame Herman Hertzberger- since I was mildly annoyed that the peddler of the the largest expanse of fair-faced blockwork in the northern hemisphere only seemed interested in showing me children happily playing chess with their shoes off on nice steps, which is a bit like turning up for a lecture by Rocco Stifredi and hearing him chime on about his love of cats.
No as I began to move again, move very gently too, I realised my subconscious was celebrating a birthday, and simply sending me back a year to total misery, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.
When this happens this household resembles that film Misery. Julie is a good dominatrix and really excels herself nosing in books for every conceivable and miraculously inconceivable cure. This brings it's own pain, whilst endearing at the same time. I, when conscious, realising perhaps the worst is over (for this bastard can really bite you in the ass) read firstly Fuzz by Ed McBain, and secondly, and this can only be done at the stage when I can just about pull up my trousers but certainly not socks, A Small Town in Germany by John Le Carre.
When you see no way forward, Fuzz is a very good book indeed, but not for the general reasons you'll find from just about any nerd who reads crime fiction and LOVES TO REVIEW IT ON THE INTERNET. No Fuzz is a book for people who love to write. The reason? Fuzz, especially if you are nearly dead, will take you maybe a day to read, and read it you will, nobody will be able to stop you. You will also have the delicious impression while you are reading it, that it is so effortless and so canny and so funny and so ordinary and so brilliant and just so there in your arms, that it probably took just about a day to write as well.