Good Morning, Old Man Willow

I have just spent one of those nights where I was not actually sure that I slept or not. I think I must have done, otherwise I would actually be dead on my feet right now (can we spell z.o.m.b.y. anyone? Apparently not). Nonetheless, it didn't feel like sleep; more like that slightly spaced-out languor that leaves your mind wandering in and out full consciousness, and leaves you wondering if something was a thought, an event, or a dream.

Remedial breakfast then, is a bar of fruit and hazelnut chocolate, a cup of coffee, and as many cigarettes as it takes. Followed by another coffee.

There is a definite chill in the air this morning; the radio is playing altogether too many Christmas tunes - there's exactly a week to go, so to my mind it's all a tad early, but then I think the Christmas tree shouldn't be dressed until Christmas Eve, and should be gone again by January 5. The forecast is for wintry showers interspersed with sunny periods. That's English weather for you; it can't quite make up its mind. Later I shall have to go to the launderette for the last time in 2004. One of the things I am looking forward to in the new year is access to a washing machine, though I understand there is no dryer.

The Polish Brigade ^TM appear to be up and giggling already. There is a great deal of Polish chittering echoing around the house as I type, on occasion audible over the sound of the radio. There is, however, no obvious sign of The Polish Brigade ^TM itself. The light has that washed-out ice-blue quality to it; were it a little more golden, the house would have a Sleepy Hollow feel to it, as it is I am settling for late Gotham City. This morning has been directed by Tim Burton.

There is a thudding on the stairs, and the radio is trying a few variations on reception. I am forced to conclude then, that something alive, and bigger than a mouse has proceeded from the room next door to the loo downstairs. The Polish Brigade ^TM have concluded whatever preoccupations have kept them hidden in the corners, and the paradigm shift from Burton to Rosenthal begins.

One more cup of coffee and the world will make a degree of sense again.

Good Morning, Old Man Willow

I have just spent one of those nights where I was not actually sure that I slept or not. I think I must have done, otherwise I would actually be dead on my feet right now (can we spell z.o.m.b.y. anyone? Apparently not). Nonetheless, it didn't feel like sleep; more like that slightly spaced-out languor that leaves your mind wandering in and out full consciousness, and leaves you wondering if something was a thought, an event, or a dream.

Remedial breakfast then, is a bar of fruit and hazelnut chocolate, a cup of coffee, and as many cigarettes as it takes. Followed by another coffee.

There is a definite chill in the air this morning; the radio is playing altogether too many Christmas tunes - there's exactly a week to go, so to my mind it's all a tad early, but then I think the Christmas tree shouldn't be dressed until Christmas Eve, and should be gone again by January 5. The forecast is for wintry showers interspersed with sunny periods. That's English weather for you; it can't quite make up its mind. Later I shall have to go to the launderette for the last time in 2004. One of the things I am looking forward to in the new year is access to a washing machine, though I understand there is no dryer.

The Polish Brigade ^TM appear to be up and giggling already. There is a great deal of Polish chittering echoing around the house as I type, on occasion audible over the sound of the radio. There is, however, no obvious sign of The Polish Brigade ^TM itself. The light has that washed-out ice-blue quality to it; were it a little more golden, the house would have a Sleepy Hollow feel to it, as it is I am settling for late Gotham City. This morning has been directed by Tim Burton.

There is a thudding on the stairs, and the radio is trying a few variations on reception. I am forced to conclude then, that something alive, and bigger than a mouse has proceeded from the room next door to the loo downstairs. The Polish Brigade ^TM have concluded whatever preoccupations have kept them hidden in the corners, and the paradigm shift from Burton to Rosenthal begins.

One more cup of coffee and the world will make a degree of sense again.