I have an immensely successful date strategy with the lovely MB. She meets me in Harvard Square, we go somewhere cheap but fun and delicious (most often Ir*�*, for the Cantabridgians among you) and douse our worries in sangria. We order courses. I believe strongly in courses. If you're not at table nibbling constantly from seven until ten, it's not dinner. Setas con ajo! Moup! Then we go to my office and pick out a movie, usually fluffy and beautiful and M�chant-Eyecandy. In this case, Le Divorce, with that Kate Hudson. And Sam the Waterstone and Stephen the Fry. Afterwards, for best results, come across MLL in Harvard Square, who sings Beeswing and J*ngl* J*ngl* M*rn*ng for you; don't miss the bus home.
Last night I won my own butch points back by uninstalling and re-installing a big-ass futon. I now can sleep 40 cm off the ground and roll over more than once without falling off. Moreover, because the sleeping area is 'Full', I now have leave from the sardonic gods who love me to bring home TWO people and try to cram them into insufficient space.
The pink roses I bought for New Year's 2000 and which hung in my room in Y*l* street ever since have been returned to me by MEG IV who was looking after them for me. I know how to preserve things! Roses must be hung upside-down before they rot. You can't really enjoy the last two days of their blooming if you want them to last. You have to hang them upside-down, in some dark place, and let them dry out and become lonely before you can look at them again. Also in the bag MEG handed me was Piotr the swan, who commemorates a trip with HRW to see Michael Bourne's Swan Lake on Broadway in 1999.
My usual source for harpsichord supplies is ignoring my email. I need quills. I don't feel disloyal, but I may have to choose another supplier.
M the great orange cat seems to be mislaid somewhere. Where is M?
ZD left the house in a cat carrier tonight.
I bleared, all soporific,
Looked at my discs with 'Lonesome Surprise',
Catless, on a peak in Futonia.
Keats has made me miserable all my life but I have finally outlived the bastard. His damned Living Hand is still the only poem I memorised for anybody who isn't me myself. O rodge, o diaper-sores! I was two hours late to work today and had to stay until ten to make things up. While I got more done in four hours of solitude, I cannot make a hobbit of this, saith the Boss Fella. No, I don't think so. Staying at work alone until ten is depressing, with sick-building fumes coiling about one and the air conditioning system too loud and too F-sharp in one's ears.