Remember, remember...

Ruminating, I believe is the word, for what I'm up to. Off work again due to this damn mouth of mine, which feels as if it's been through a paper shredder. Just not up to interviewing people at all in this state. But here I am, thinking, staring at the grim view we have over other people's gardens (three houses away there's a cramped cattery that is brimming with uncomfortable-looking felines. I wonder if I would be sending them to a worse fate if I liberated them at some point this afternoon) and, if I lean back a bit, I can see a church tower. I was going to commit the cardinal sin of sick day and nip to the pub with a mate later, but he's just phoned me to say he's tied up with something else. My mouth, faced with the froth of Fosters Extra Cold, is probably grateful for this but it leaves me with unscheduled free time. I could write some script but, well, nothing's happening in that department today. I stood in the yard contemplating developing my skateboard skills but, as M is stranded in Leeds and wants me to pick her up later, I thought I better not risk life and limb flying through the air with all the grace of a hippo. I'm gripped by inertia. The feeling, though, is much better than that which I face at work. I could get used to working from home again, I think, even with this appalling small northern town view. Thoughts are turning to tonight, which will involve some blue touch paper lighting. In these days of organised displays, it feels quite subversive to be taking a box of Standard's finest to someone's house. The prospect of igniting myself, which will be inevitable due to the laces that hang off the jumper I'll be wearing, feels positively anarchic. If the night passes without too many incendiary problems we'll be seeking out an organised affair tomorrow, I think. Such is our thirst for explosions. Isn't it great that the fireworks fly 365 days of the year, these days? Not that Black Watch will be happy about that. Can't we just bring them all home NOW? What's really being getting on my nerves today, other than my fucking mouth, is Tony Blair's media-massaged message of sympathy. What's with this ridiculously slow staccato voice? Can't he be real and show some proper feelings, or isn't that allowed when you wage a phoney war on terrorism?

Music: Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Fever To Tell. War: Costs lives