The asian man here is oddly attractive. Smooth skin. Tight-ish fitting clothes. Not too thin or too anything. A deep slightly rough rasping voice, actually more West Indian south London roughness. Perhaps he’s mixed with that. Is it okay for me to call people brown? I’ve been talking to a man on scruff who uses … Continue reading 7. A Monday. In the city.
Author: andrewcstevenson
49. Thursday.
Two and a half books of this writing. I don’t know whether to call it “work” or not, as in “a body of work”. Work, when used to describe the sort that we are supposed to go to every day, is an emotive, loaded word. A lunatic on a men’s social website has been questioning … Continue reading 49. Thursday.
71. Thursday afternoon.
There does seem to be a depressing inevitability to all of this. Three things have happened today. I initially called them major things, but I’m not so sure now. It is hard to tell what is significant. The immediate world feels surreal. President Macron of France has announced new national lockdown restrictions. The population will … Continue reading 71. Thursday afternoon.
168. Post-everything time.
It is that in-between Christmas and New Year time. Roughly three years ago I began this journal with a similar sentence, sitting up on that balcony in Victoria station. I miss that time, those evenings, the romantic dreaming of far away places, like Purley Oaks. I had to think carefully then to work out whether … Continue reading 168. Post-everything time.
9. Saturday. (Passport to, or from) Pimlico.
The first day of a new era. I’m feeling an odd sense of not-quite-euphoria, not because I think today’s brave new world of blinkered independence is a good thing, far from it. It isn’t even necessarily of world significance either. Let’s not forget that we are a mere small island with an astonishing sense of … Continue reading 9. Saturday. (Passport to, or from) Pimlico.
169. The beginning of the year.
In hospital, on top of a hill near a common in Woolwich. Who knew Woolwich had a nice part? Who knew hospitals could still be so ghastly? I’ve been here several times in the last week. The department I’m being examined by has relocated. It feels like there is a sense of organisation, but the … Continue reading 169. The beginning of the year.
48. Thursday in a country of fascists.
Pay day so I’m on a trip out of London to the coast. The sky is grey, the way I like it. I’ve been making film of the Thames in grey mist, monochrome, still, noir-esque. Croydon has a look of a mid-American city with tall buildings, straight roads, everything bland. I could live there and … Continue reading 48. Thursday in a country of fascists.
173. Tuesday, St Pancras again. Writing with a finger injury.
I don’t do this so much anymore, so I think my observational perception is a little out of tune. An aura of perception, as it was once referred to in an episode of Hancock’s Half Hour, unexpectedly. I don’t do many of the things I want to these days. Photography, cycling, I want to roam … Continue reading 173. Tuesday, St Pancras again. Writing with a finger injury.
87. Tuesday afternoon.
4pm and it is dark outside. It hasn’t really got light today at all. John is pruning trees in Earlsfield. There’s a bird flu outbreak in India, adding to the general feeling of world pestilence. My father is going in to a residential home, he’s mentally confused. There’s not much to look forward to. I’ll … Continue reading 87. Tuesday afternoon.
153. Sunday afternoon, in St Pancras.
Returning to old habits, but I don’t mind. I might even eat here. I tell myself I need to buy coffee but perhaps I don’t. Coffee can just be a treat on days off. I could have stayed at home and watched films today. I still get restless if I stay at home all day. … Continue reading 153. Sunday afternoon, in St Pancras.
