Heading down to the local pub with friend and two of her grandchildren to support Ghana in the World Cup. Pity they don't have Michael Essien, who's injured. Their opponents, USA have been impressive. Hope the little girls don't get too bored. Now where did I leave my kente gear?
I upgraded the iPhone for the new software. Fine. Then I decided to use the new folder facility. Now the bloody thing makes the most horrendous squawk every time I use it. Life is too short to get involved in this stuff. Sometimes I envy people who have rejected mobile phones and online 'culture'; though it's becoming increasingly difficult to do so. We are enslaved by 'labour-saving' gadgets.
Saturday, 26 June 2010
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
Bloom's Day
Happy Bloom's Day! I've just had the pork kidney for breakfast, duly scorched. A reading tonight of Molly Bloom's dream would be a fitting end to the great day.
writLOUD
Attended writLOUD, Birkbeck's reading event on Monday. Impressed by Orange shotlistee Monique Roffey's reading from "The White Woman on the Green Bicycle'', set in Trinidad, and fellow MACW student, Alice Fitzgerald Wickham's excellent Dublin-based bildungsroman - somewhat in the style of a female Roddy Doyle. A new comic writer to watch!
Sunday, 23 May 2010
Toby Litt
I found Toby Litt's piece in today's Observer interesting: a bit of good luck being in Prague in 1990 and deciding become a writer. He's on the staff of the MA in CW at Birkbeck.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Saturday, 8 May 2010
It's the Met Police again - a true story
I live in a ground-floor studio flat in a council block.
I am awoken abruptly this morning at 8:45 by banging on my door.
“Who’s there?” I inquire grumpily.
From the corridor, “Police”
“Not again”, to myself. More knocking.
“Hang on” I throw a shirt and jeans on.
More persistent and much louder banging on door. I open up and am confronted by six male police officers
“Are you Mr R...?”
Before they get a chance to go any further, I intervene brimming with anger and righteous indignation,
“I’m fed up with this; this is the second time in a year I’ve been woken by the police looking for various suspects...”
"How long have you been here?"
“Five years...five years to the week and this is the second time I’ve been woken recently by police banging on the door and demanding me to open up immediately and wanting to know about somebody I’ve never heard of... I’m sick of it... you need to get your database sorted out”. I ‘m gesturing with my right hand to emphasise the point, palm facing chest, as I do when giving a powerpoint presentation.
The one closest to me with jet black hair, who seems to be leading the posse says - and who looks oddly familiar -
“You’ve raised your voice and made an intimidating gesture at me”
“What are you talking about?”
“You pointed your finger at me. That is an intimidating gesture.”
“ It's not me who's intimidating, I'm naturally angry. Who is the highest ranking officer here?” I ask.
A fair-haired one says “We’re all the same...”
“Well I want to report this.”
The dark-haired one then says,
“We’re looking for someone called R.... He was reported for assault by a woman who gave us this address”.
Well...why does this happen to me all the time? You need to find out why she gave you the wrong address. I’m a law-abiding citizen. I’ve never had a problem with the law. I’m a graduate - an english graduate, I say pathetically as if graduates, and more precisely english graduates don’t carry out assaults, like the way priests were never thought to do wrong.
Then Fair-haired says, “I’m a graduate too”.
My neighbour - a big guy with big feet, emerges from around the corner and suggests,
“it might have something to do with the previous tenant.”
I had been tipped-off that the previous tenant was apparently ‘known’ to the local constabulary. Fair-haired then asks my name and date of birth, presumably to look me up on their rotten database. I stupidly give it to him.
Another one says,
“Maybe it’s the address, are you on the electors register?”
“Five years on the register at this address”, I say.
Dark-haired then gives me his tag number, a “CAB” number and the name of his station. They leave, and I shut the door.
Till the next time...
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