Monday, April 16, 2007

Self-composting royalty...

Ooh, the weekend. Sun and beer and such, starting with an evening at the theatre, entering a lull around about fence 11 of the Grand National but picking up again when I picked up a guitar in mother's back garden.

I took offence at all that royal news - Nicholas Witchell delivering a very sombre, funereal piece to camera outside Buck Palace being the lowlight: "For this young couple it was never meant to be." Oh, really, who cares? Apparently the Hull Daily Mail, who managed to forget about being at the heart of all things local for a day to devote a front page to Wills and Kate. Ridiculous - there are probably about seven lovers of the monarchy in the whole of Hull and the East Riding. I did quite like the much-repeated Wills paraphrase that he would only marry at the age of 28 or 30. What's wrong with 29 you even number-lovin' parasite? I must stop now, otherwise the tabloids will be blaming the right royal split on my appetite for these stories.
Back to work today - have hit the halfway mark on the Rank redraft. A lot of material so I can slash and hack my way through it, deleting the dull nonsense. Shouldn't have re-read Prick Up Your Ears as I keep inserting Ortonesque lines, only to backspace over them seconds later after amusing myself (coincidentally, in the background TV's Karl Neighbours doctor Kennedy has just been heard to mumble: "Hey, lads, what do you know about self-composting toilets?" which also strikes me as a tad Joe-like). Back at work tonight, too, back to the council estate workshoppery, so I devoted some of the morning to planning for that, causing M to remark that I have a "good work ethic". Which was a good enough reason for me to down tools and blog this instead.

Listening: Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly - War of the Worlds.

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