poo bah

oh hell, what a contrast. Freedom for a weekend, concentrating on absolutely nothing except trying to stay upright. There's a wonderful release in trying to ride a motorcycle hard down country lanes that comes from the necessity to uninvolve yourself from every other concern. It's an exhilarating non-focus.

The upshot of which is the crashing disappointment of returning to the land where all of your personal ogres live. My talking chimpanzee has been on speed this week. It's got to the point where I can barely speak to him now. Every moment that he is not involved with something very specific to do his jaw drops open and fills the room with bile. He's rude, he's sexist, but not in the way that we can all join in with the joke, inappropriate, stomach churningly intense....he declared recently that he likes "to shock", but I have a different theory. Surely it has to be just attention seeking? Like a child throwing a tantrum, look at me, look at me everybody....I wish we could simply paint him purple with yellow polka dots, he'd be so much easier to ignore.

On a side note, my estate agent has been sending his imaginary friends to view the flat. That is, none of the people he has promised as prospective purchasers have as yet actually turned up. I’m disappointed, I live alone and I’m pretty sure that my colour scheme is, what shall we say, “horrendous”, a marvellous transition between baroque and burlesque, and I was really looking forward to gauging it from the looks on visitors faces. Denied.

Would somebody explain to me please why this man who claims to be able to proactively market my home, to actively “sell” it, to marry it convincingly to one of the enormous number of clients he has on his books all searching for just the right property – should get several thousand £’s for telling someone who walks in off the street what my address is?

On reflection I think it would be better off on ebay.