I'm well, thank you for asking.
In
fact, I think I'm all well. I would go for walks on Hampstead Heath and
check on my hand to see how my body was doing, like I used to in hospital,
then see that it was glowing and have to find a bench, but that was
back in February...
And, well, now, how to get from there to here? Am I just going to write everything? Maybe I should start by making my excuses:
1.
The lease ran out on my photoshop, which is half the fun of these posts
for me (so these images are bigger and duller than I'd like).
2. I *was* of course going to write about my steroid-induced psychotic episode next (so very Christian Bale,
so very topical back in February), but thought better of that until I'd
found somewhere to live... which, now I set it down in print, strikes me
as incredibly paranoid. Or is it? I don't know. Ah. No, but if I were
vetting potential flat-mates I'd probably google them to see if they'd,
say, started any fights in hospital with a club-footed Maori. Then
again, to paraphrase Lenny Bruce, I'd google mud.
Hmm. These paragraphs are more widely spaced than I remember, Yup, big
spaces... Anyway, I moved out of Susy's at the end of March, into a long,
uncarpeted, white-washed room in a large, airy, joss-sticky flat in
Gipsy Hill, and I lasted there a month. The land-lady didn't like my
hours, and who can blame her? The floor-boards creaked, her room was
right outside the bathroom, she slept with her door open so actually yes
I for one can blame her, but a home's a home, and that was hers, and I'm
not even sure I want one right now.
Time passes, shut up! as Dylan Thomas once wrote, and I've found a room now, with a carpet and a coffee table, three storeys up a tower-block in Clapham Junction, with gardens, pool, sauna, jacuzzi, and
loudly wuthering heights. I'm holed up across from the busiest station
in Europe, I've found a "Complete Works of Shakespeare" for a pound, and
Dr. Thompson's incomparable "Great Shark Hunt" for three, I'm pretending
I'm on tour, or a scatty writer assigned to LA, while my stuff – the charred
and the saved – stays in storage until I can face it, and the big
money's been coming in fine from Shunt whose new show's more physical aspects can be seen here under construction.
In
fact, they're still under construction. And with nowhere to work, and the
director up in Scotland, we have this week off. It's okay though, it's
all fine, I'm just in it for the company and the money, that's what I've
got to keep telling myself. I mean, it's great! I'm better! I can do
winch-work and wrestling, and I've got a pool and a sofa! And I've got
work, biggish commissions for both LaurenceandGus' and MitchellandWebb's
new radio shows, and it's work I can actually do (new stuff got laughed
at)! AND the insults Charlotte Hesketh and
I have been throwing back and forth across f*c*b**k for the past month
now number a hundred, so I can finally leave that! And here we are
rehearsing: Hey Spacey, copy THIS!
Whatsamadda,
Kevin Spacey, you chicken?! Oh yeh, you all: "I'm going to get a railway
arch and put art in and shit" and we all: "Let's drop this flowerpot on
the director's head a number of times before he leaves" and you all:
"Good luck with that then" and we all "Ow, uh...." Yes well lots to
catch up on then. Hello again, thanks for sticking around. A post every
other day as promised, once. Join me tomorrow for those hundred insults
then. I'm better. This is easy.
(Oh yeah, 3:10 AM. I remember. Hmm... still big spaces.)
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