I just don’t see the point of making the bed after I get up. The Sisyphean aspects of the pointless task do not worry me; such is the nature of our miserable human existence.
We lose things, we find things. I do hope that what goes around comes around, so that I can get back that ten Euro note I lost in a toilet in Helsinki that time.
My mind keeps popping in the notion that this is somehow a new problem, a by-product of our new, over-connected technological age. But that’s nonsense.
It’s time for me to play being a TV commissioning editor again: let’s see what I can come up with this time…
I don’t always have the time to write a complete novel – it’s much easier to find the time to spit out a thousand words in the small spaces of time I have available to me.
For all but the most successful musicians, the life of playing music is a relatively precarious existence, based on keeping a string of jobs in progress.
This is all an hallucination. I am currently strapped in to a dentist’s chair, in my old neighbourhood, having hallucinogenic compounds drip-fed directly in to my eyeballs.