Back home. Christmas all done for another year. I’ve unpacked my presents, sorted my room, now sat shivering with full-on lurgy, viscous liquid leaking from my nose. Head is swimming, brain bubbling somewhere around a thousand degrees. Tried doing a cryptic crossword but I’ve got no brain power - Mrs Simpson’s spread (5) was easy, as was Truce for review of Erica’s fee (9), but what’s Only heads can negotiate a lock on this? (5)? Or B, C or D, for example, in harmony (9)? I can sense the answers out there, floating muddily in the quagmire of my consciousness, but I can’t wade out far enough to find them.
I’m going to get in bed and read that Welcome to Night Vale novel Mike bought me; somehow the ghost stories of sentient houses, faces in the desert, doors to other dimensions, and predatory street sweepers seem appropriate for my current state of mind. I’m pretty much in Night Vale already, I only need the gentlest of nudges.
Oh, and it’s CONSONANT, right? “B, C and D, for example”. And “in harmony”. Consonant.
Work tomorrow morning. Don’t even.
……
Music. Missed this the last few days, being on my phone and all (“all” = “writing at 1am in bed just wanting to get it done and get to sleep”). Today: Burning, by The Whitest Boy Alive, one of the bands Jamie introduced me to. Jangly, upbeat guitars, tinged with a low octane insouciance. Like Los Campesinos!, played on a slowing tape deck at the bottom of the ocean.
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