And then there was Wednesday

I woke up with a splitting headache, for no apparent reason. Headaches should be earned (preferably by over imbibement of double IPAs or some such beverage) not bestowed on you by the universe willy nilly. It throws the whole natural order of things out of kilter.

I struggled along and tried to progress my day into some fashion of sanity. Sanity passes for increasing my ever growing mail/phone list with more people to badger. I would hate to be getting a phone call from me in all honesty. So I apologise to the photographic professionals of London in advance.

A care package arrived from Scotland, featuring gifts from Slybacon Snr and Mother's recent trip to the North Americas. More importantly, it included a restock of Mushroom stock. I don't mean to keep pissing on London. But for a capital city which fancies itself as the dog bollocks, it has proven unable to deliver mushroom stock as of yet. They seem to have a serious paucity of Polish shops. 

The day improved thanks to a fantastic soundtrack. The new Leonard Cohen album is magnificent. I also stumbled across a fantastic record by a band called Uranium Club, which could pass as some lost late 70's punk artefact. Add to this some solo stuff from Al Cisneros teamed with Om dub plates that my mate Mike Bastard turned me onto, and my ears basically had a field day.

Riot returned with a prospectus encouraging me to study a Masters in Paris. If the Masters program is a fraction as good as the printing quality of the Brochure it must be a great thing indeed. Given this c(o)untries determined attempts to flush its head and future down the toilet of History, perhaps an escape abroad isn't so far beyond the realms of plausibility (although entirely beyond the budget I would imagine).

The evening was a double whammy of bake-off, to catch up so that spoilers would not ruin the experience for Ms Riot. I found myself struggling to care once Selassie left. Although perhaps saying I cared is overstating the experience.

I've found over time, writing these things is invariably easier once I've had a few drinks. I guess Hunter and Bukowski were right...