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Loose bra, no knickers
Another day, another scooter accident.
The one a few weeks ago was more physically debilitating; this one added an additional injury: to my confidence. I slipped on some cobbles which were slimed with wet leaves. I sat down on the grass to compose myself, and a passing couple gave me some tissues with which to wipe the blood away from just above my eye. With the accompanying damage to my cheek, I looked hard for a week or so.
I got back in the saddle as soon as I could. The security guard in Sainsbury's asked me how fast my scooter could go. "Well, only twenty, but that's enough."
"Well, you don't want to be going too fast at your age."
I was going to argue the point, but my leg, eye, cheek, knee, shin and hip were a little sore.
Trina and I were supposed to have been in Croatia this week, but we decided the testing regime is too worrying a thing to carry with you on holiday, so she invited me up to hers. Mel went a bit quiet when I announced my plans.
At Birmingham New Street, a tramp-like shoplifter offered me a litre of vodka. We settled on £7. On the train back down, the man sitting opposite me offered me some vodka and iced tea, which we sat drinking out of cardboard cups. He was chatty and generous, talking about his twins and his job as a night porter, and repeatedly refilling my cup.
He did his best to include the willowy woman next to us. She was content with her coffee, but we all talked easily. It was a trio which could only be composed on a train, consisting of a retired consultant dermatologist, a Polish pisshead, and an English one.
As he got off, he presented me with a bottle of the stuff we'd been drinking.
Thank you Witold!
It went very well with Trina. I was indulged even before I got there, with help with my train fare, and she was generous with the bill division whilst I was there. The women in my life treat me so well. A good deal of drinking, but had a day in Port Sunlight and the Lady Lever Art gallery there, a pleasure for fans of the reclining Victorian nuddy woman. It also holds Joseph Farquharson's Hallmarked and Clintonised picture of sheep in winter.
She drove us to Middlesbrough to see my mum, my sister, and the latter's debut solo art exhibition. Some good photography: the iron arches of Darlington station; a long, rough stone (sewage?) pipe stretching into the North Sea. Some less good textual pieces which show the influence of Farce Book.
In a cheap chain pub, one of a trio of coarse, tightly-T-shirted men said loudly as I walked past, "gotta be a paedo."
Back at Trina's, the local paper reports, with a relish I am afraid I enjoyed, some details of a fraud case involving a pensioner and a younger Italian woman.
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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person
M / 60 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].
"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.
WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.
There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic
I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008
The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek
Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons
I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner
La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes
Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to
mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards
the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity
would be able to use the word again.
John Whale
One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010
The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011
Rummage in my drawers
The Comfort of Strangers
23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning
If your comment box looks like this, I'm afraid I sometimes can't be bothered with all that palarver just to leave a comment.
63 mago
Another Angry Voice
the asshat lounge
Clutter From The Gutter
Crinklybee
Eryl Shields Ink
Exile on Pain Street
Fat Man On A Keyboard
gairnet provides: press of blll
George Szirtes ditto
Infomaniac [NSFW]
Laudator Temporis Acti
Leeds's Singing Organ-Grinder
The Most Difficult Thing Ever
Quillette
Strange Flowers
Wonky Words
"Just sit still and listen" - woman to teenage girl at Elliott Carter weekend, London 2006
5:4Bristol New Music
Desiring Progress Collection of links only
NewMusicBox
The Rambler
Resonance FM
Sequenza 21
Sound and Music
Talking Musicology defunct, but retained