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August 8th, 2004

I have spent the weekend trying to recover from the excessive consumption that characterised the week. Excessive consumption and very good company. But I am oddly dopey from too much exercise and sun at the moment so if this reads a little drearily and list-like I do apologise.

Tuesday night was spent boozing in the pleasantly Dickensian surroundings of the George with ladycat, whom I like more each time I meet her and whom I am sure I am going to grow to love dearly.

Wednesday I went to the Lartigue exhibition at the Hayward Gallery details here with Northernbint. Lartigue himself was the sickly child of awesomely rich parents and he started taking pictures when he was seven. They are, until, and even long after he discovered girls, chiefly pictures of pleasure. And mainly the indolent, luxurious pleasures of the idle rich in Paris and the Midi. They are lovely, and many of them seem to have been taken completely spontaneously, so they have an even sharper sense of a vanished world about them.

I was very taken with the stereoscopic pictures. These are pictures taken with two cameras joined by a length of metal equivalent to the space between the human eyes. When you look at them through the binocular-like viewers they appear three dimensional. I kept going back to these, I found them too real and oddly creepy. They reminded me of a storyline in that fab old sci-fi series Sapphire and Steel where I think people were being reincarnated from photos. We followed this with drinks in the NFT bar and then a dinner to soak them up at Studio Six. Great food, but the appallingly slow service somehow meant we ended up drinking far too much gin and wine.

Thursday I spent with my dear friend Annus, who came down to London to wine and dine a client and his wife and to take them to the Turin Brakes gig at Somerset House. As the client dipped out, Northernbint and her sister-out-law came instead. There was a dangerous lack of dining before the wining, so we were all pretty merry for the support act, a pretty good French band called Phoenix, and Annus herself was so steaming drunk that we had to head home half through the Brakes' set. They are a little bit too low-fi to enjoy live, at least while standing up and inebriated.

On Friday Annus and I were supposed to go the Hopper Exhibition at the Tate Mod, but she was far too hungover and I was far too knackered as I'd not slept. So we did nothing except sit around and laugh at each other while she munched on the bread I'd baked - great fun. I did manage, eventually, to make it to Borough Market and my lovely Farmer Sharp more info here (he doesn't know it yet, but he may have to marry me; I love it when a man with a Lancashire accent and his hands full of fine raw flesh calls me a 'lovely lass') to get provisions as I was cooking dinner for davywavy. He proved to be a very bad influence indeed, making me drink and smoke far too much, so that all I was fit for yesterday was sunbathing and watching crap TV.

I have also been pining rather a lot this week. I am missing stickette who is in Australia being clever and lawyerly (and shopping for fetishwear no doubt) and my lovely flatmate Gavalu who is in Thailand with his boyf for three weeks. These are my two soulmates and they are both on the other side of the world. At the same time. So naturally I am feeling sorry for myself. Gav and I have lived together for four years now and when he phoned the other day, instead of having a sensible conversation about his holiday and my adventures I found myself blurting out, 'I really miss you' at exactly the same moment he said, 'we've never been apart this long before' and we both burst into tears like a pair of fools. The flat simply isn't home without him.

I've also had some more reservations about some of the stuff I have written in this journal. For much of the past year or so I have been thinking about the past, and talking about it as I never have before, even to the closest of my friends. There is stuff that I have written here that I have never spoken of with anyone, or at least hadn't till I wrote and that opened up conversations about it (e.g. the entry i wrote on the 4th Aug). I disallow comments when I write stuff like that because I don't think there is much anyone could say, and the last thing I want is for, Gods forbid, anyone to sympathise with me. I have no regrets about my varied and interesting life; I rather like the person it has made me. But I appreciate that some of the things I have written could make harrowing reading. If the consensus is that these sort of entries would be better in a private post I shall do that with them in future.

Now I've got to see if I can drum up the energy to deal with ticket touts so I can get into the Snow Patrol gig at Somerset House...


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