It's too hot in my parent's new house. I noticed it last summer but wrote it off. It was a hot summer, after all. Houses throughout London turned into saunas. It provided meat for several of my own blog posts, whether as a point of complaint itself or as a metaphor to be twisted sloppily into a complaint about something else. I expected it to be too hot.
I'm a bit surprised to find it too hot in March.
I'm not here to escape from the cold. I'm here, ostensibly, to get my laptop fixed. A hangover from its high velocity voyage out the rear windscreen of my deceased Cavalier, its hinges are askew. If it were a door it would be an inconvenience; a shove of a shoulder to close it and that's that. Sadly, it's a computer.
Every time the door shudders the house around it collapses.
London without money is odd. It's similar to sitting in my room in Linlithgow: a hermitage. Except instead of freezing my arse off, I can't breathe for the heat. And there are no cats to talk to.
My writing's pants of late. This post has set a new record for false starts. The tide's turning though, for this and other things. I'm so used to a sense of impending doom that I'm not sure what to call its opposite - not without sounding like an arrogant or hopelessly optimistic wanker at least.
Some new(ish) pics here.