Cats and the Irish avantgarde

Kim's here for the weekend. Her dog pissed on my trendy G-Plan chair and over the hem of two of her dresses which were draped over it. Kim's meticulously fussy about cleanliness -- she resolutely avoids showering or bathing in my bathroom whilst she's here -- but a dog pissing over my furniture and her dresses is OK. She woofed through a big plateful of spaghetti alla puttanesca, then said she was still hungry, so I made us some drop scones, of which she ate fourteen.

She started wanking again in bed -- or at least, I read something sexual into the way she seemed to be breathing and constantly moving. This turned me on very much. I spent a long time thinking about how what a good state her cunt must be in to receive a proposition: "Kim -- could I put my fingers inside your cunt?" but I didn't: the bed, with Kim, has a border.

We spent last night snorting meow meow off a book called Historical Documents of the Irish Avantgarde. The book was chosen for its laminated cover and size, but I liked the conjunction of the sparkling, crystalline white lines of the most visually attractive of all drugs I know, and the book's title.

It's an invented documentary of Irish contemporary music, written by Jennifer Walshe, an actual Irish contemporary composer; Flann O'Brien's pisstake of the comical forced nobility of Gaelic language preservation contests, in The Poor Mouth, can't be far behind it. I wish she hadn't given the device away in the foreward, as it dulls the joke. Whilst I haven't noticed any indication of a mephedrone habit in Walshe's recent programme notes, I think such a playful woman would appreciate the way we used her faux research. I read a couple of chapters of it in between dancing and re-dosing, but meow meow fucks your reading sight up pretty early on.

I get a phone call from a rough-sounding bird. She's ringing to offer me an interview for a job in a betting shop; I applied back in February. I deliberately sent them a revisionist cv designed to make me sound thick, omitting any education beyond my 'O' levels, and inventing several menial jobs to replace my teacher / signalman / technical author years. It's secured me the interview, but I can't find the cv on my computer so I'll have to improvise my lying. The reviews from former employees on the internet who've worked for the firm are almost universally adverse, but it's a case of co-dependency at the very bottom of the ladder.

Wendy said the other day, "The obvious career for you is staring you in the face. But neither Kitty nor me would want to visit you in prison."

Fuckwit Lodger delights me with a text saying that he's moving out on Thursday. I have never wanted to see the back of a lodger as much as he. His constant presence demands an equally constant tiring sociability. He never has visitors or goes out to meet friends, and his poor cat is kept a prisoner in the house, never let outdoors. He visits his controlling personality on her. She's staying here when he leaves and she doesn't know of the vista of back alley adventures about to be opened up to her.