Well, the good news is the Cheeto is FUCKED.
In other news, I think I might finally be becoming British. Yesterday I listened to quite a lot of Brian Eno's early and definitive ambient music. Just like the Alan Bennett revelation a bit ago, turns out Eno is quite good too. And I must say, I admire his desire to create music that is just there, in a space with you.
I am sitting in my outdoor space, with a fresh fire and a bag full of garden. I've trimmed the hedge (didn't need much) and swept a bit (into piles) and now I'm writing this. It felt appropriate to perhaps write a bit more because we're in second lockdown here. The bad news is I've become fat. I challenged myself (barely) to survey the shortbreads. It was great to have a job (other than sleeping and watching and worrying about the virus?) so I leapt at it well. I'm quite competitive too, so I created numerous ways to continue the survey. Mostly morning and afternoon teas and then there was that time Lynsey popped over to test her allergies with the boys and she's Scottish so well I had to serve her some and have some and before you know it, it's time for me to return to lentils and hummus and not shortbread.
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| If you look closely you can see the Ginger General in the background |
I'm blaming the shortbread and not the excessive cheese and then there's those oh-so-gorgeous and slavery free Tony's Chocolates which are everywhere now in massive piles at all the shops and fuck! I exercised yesterday to meet Kati for some Karaage but they weren't doing it so I threw myself at an absolutely delicious salt beef bagel and we've agreed to work out again next week. As I remarked to Kati, it's basically keto. I felt a bit bad when she told me that I had repeated a one-liner from a previous meal together. Must work on new material, so here I am.
Now I can't remember if I've written about this before, so pardon me if so, but, I have a couple of new habits to report, which are mostly about joy and comfort (and why the fuck are the Brits now trying to SAVE CHRISTMAS from the virus): I am now much better at containers of leftovers... perhaps because I'm home now, they have stopped turning into forgotten horror slime (or is that just me?); I've definitely told you about getting coffee beans at Monmouth. Dammit. What was the other one? Umm. Magazines? Yes, have a few good ones. Today, I've been reading The Gentlewoman which apart from all the tweed, viscose and Gucci, has a lovely article called Hermitude by Susan Irvine. I don't have enough battery left to tell you properly about it, but, it's about a lovely thing called past unreal conditional, a la "I would have loved to come to [insert event here]", a Rem Koolhaas concept called junkspace and how we should try to not allow our minds to become like that, and a book I now want called The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard (let me know if you have a copy I may borrow). She was spurred by an essay called Marilynne Robinson, The Art of Fiction No. 198 in The Paris Review, where Marilynne, the author, is being interviewed:
INTERVIEWER
When you were little, what did you think you’d be when you grew up?
ROBINSON
Oh, a hermit?
I've also lit a fire because a) it's autumn, not raining, and not freezing, and b) I have some sausages that need cooking. I hope I'll stay alive to write another post, as they've slightly outstayed their welcome in the fridge.
I hope I live to see the Cheeto get fired. Oh, happy days!