23 March
You’d think a Cambridge student writing a graffito on a library sign would be able to spell masturbation correctly; but as I always say, you don’t have to be able to spell it to enjoy it.
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1 April
I wish I were a blackbird. I aspire to the blamelessness of birds.
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5 April
My latest thing is deliberately hearing ‘bald’ as ‘balled’ for comic purposes, i.e. ‘I hear he’s completely bald.’ ‘Yes, he has the full complement of two.’ That sort of thing. Other people don’t seem to find it as hilarious as I do.
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19 May
Rude awakening this morning to the Beach Boys’ ‘When I Grow Up To Be A Man’, which seemed to be mocking me somehow, though I don’t know why.
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2 July
I remain amused by the fact that J and I concluded that people called Barnaby were respectively dickheads and absolutely fine on the basis of having met the same Barnaby several years apart.
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19 July
Memory: Aged about nine or ten, I wrote a story called ‘The Shit Family Robinson’, but I can’t remember anything about it. My best title, though.
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16 August
On the train down, a toddler walking up the aisle ran his hand over my knee to support himself. Even at an early age I think I had an innate feeling of respect for boundaries, and would never have touched anyone else without permission; but perhaps I did this and now have no memory of it.
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20 September
Hospital appointment on Monday. Granny: ‘It’ll be the Somerset water, I expect.’ I haven’t lived in Somerset since 2002.
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3 October
I boarded the train last night at Hitchin and immediately spotted a pair of suit trousers wrapped in clear plastic in the overhead luggage rack. Some poor man’s lost his trousers, I thought. This kind of thing I always find unbearably poignant, despite the smallness of the loss. Picturing the man’s realisation of his mistake. And that man dropping his programme in the Albert Hall urinal, sad because of the pathetic fate of the programme and because of its being so recently bought. Four pounds down the drain; two bunches of violets trod in the mud. The recentness may be key. Mr Bean at New Year, hearing ‘Three cheers for Rupert and Hubert’ from across the hall, and realising he’s just missed celebrating midnight by a matter of seconds due to the cruelty of his supposed friends. His pain at this is the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen on television. Small disappointments can be great.
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9 November
Quite a treat this lunchtime: Poached Chicken Supreme and Herb Velouté. The best jazz duo this side of New Orleans.