from the past.
Survived lunch, even managed to stomach some uncooked spaghetti and a pudding optimistically named ‘Cherry Banger’. Slow evisceration.
The effect of my suddenly having a beard was to make D shut up for a few hours, which was nice. Then, eventually, ‘Hello, unshaven one.’
In a bad mood with various people today, but that’s because they’re fucking incompetent.
I failed a student. He asked where a book was and I said it was on loan and he looked a bit lost, like Michael Cera, and I should have told him how to recall it or to request another one but I let him get away and I don’t know his name and I’m a bad librarian.
Mozart’s birthday. When I got in, my keyboard was covered with a sticky translucent goo. Not a good look, hombre.
Actually, it wasn’t the hair I liked so much as that it was his.
Thoughts going to work of Donald Crowhurst.
How long have I been writing my capital G’s as I do? Ten years? ‘Dakin writes like him; I write like Dakin.’