Bluebells and daffodils

Just every now and then, I get caught up in songs. Although I'm not responsible for crimes against music like Gavin Nicol, who is entirely capable of listening to one song on repeat for days on end until you want to kill him, then the band, and then yourself. I hear Gav is going to Chamonix, though the reasons for this trip have been made vague by contradiction. The point of all of which is, a song by The Shins is caught in my head. It is called, by coincidence, 'Australia', and you can listen to it on http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=3225508, if you like. I don't much care for their other work, but this cuts me hard.

"You've been alone since you were 21
You haven't laughed since January..."

...wrapped up in a lovely little pop song.

London was OK, except for the last day where I was struck down by a hangover of truly epic proportions, the result of drinking 7.9% cider with Banks and Dancing Phil. It was one of those rare monsters that pulses stabbing pain through both sides of your head if you open your eyes. It was touch and go, for a while, until I had several paracetamol and two boiled eggs. And for a week I lived in the mistaken belief we were a day and a half ahead of the actual date. Tim and Alanna set me straight. I also had a couple of cricket nets which left me in well-earned agony, but sparked my interest in the game again. It was beaten out of me at Lancaster, and I didn't imagine it coming back. But cricket balls, much like carabiners, are objects of such tremendous, immediate tangibility that it is hard to resist them for long.

And now I'm back at home; the first plan was to see everyone in Edinburgh and Glasgow before coming back, but plans change, and - mostly for reasons of poverty - I've come straight to Inverness. I spent most of the train journey north of Edinburgh looking for rocks. Mum and Dad are well; the dog is all growed up, and we have a new kitten who embraces every new experience with almost lethal curiosity. The top third of the lawn has been staked with a gigantic trellis that should make croquet interesting, and we spent most of this afternoon digging up the old herb bed and using the mud to make, "A mound, you know, like a croissant". There will be bluebells and daffodils, sooner or later.

The revised plan, the second plan is to stay here while job-hunting for work in Edinburgh or Glasgow. I'm not especially fussy which. It means much time on the internet, and on every new form I tackle the dreary issue of rewriting my camera assistant CV for a job in an industry that is radically different in both attitude and application. I've applied for a post with the RSPB in Glasgow that looks like it would be good for me; moreover I'm facing up to the hard fact that all of the few jobs I'm qualified for - other than camera assisting - have preposterous titles concluding with 'officer', and I think again about Subway advertising for 'Sandwich artists' and I feel shame, shame. Media & Communications Officer; Press Relations Officer: substitute 'officer' for 'assistant' and you might hit the mark. I think the switch must have been orchestrated at a national level to generate staff motivation without giving a payrise. Bullshit parlance, a modern condition, punching above your weight. Tired again, always... I miss some things in Australia but it was the right time to leave. I haven't had any regrets, yet. Delaying the inevitable.

Wouldn't it be great if you could vote to napalm the Big Brother house? Wouldn't that be something? I'd watch that fucking special. And I think someone needs to feed acid to Avril Lavigne. Either kind. And they should bring back Crystal Maze. Banks and I once discussed in some depth the need to up the ante of punishments on Crystal Maze... electrifying the water in Atlantis zone, maybe, or using real guillotines in Aztec. Deep, deep inside Futuristic zone:

“Now Tracy, this is a physical game. But if the bell sounds three times, then the door will lock and the room will implode to the size of an orange.”
“What about me?”
“You’ll be inside.”
“Inside the orange?”
“Umm... yes.”
“So what size will I be?”
“Well, smaller than the orange, Tracy.”
“Oh. OK. I see the rope, and the bells, and the crystal, but where’s the orange?”

Click – whoosh. Goodbye Tracy! Too much television. I have a bad habit of flicking channels late at night until I'm too tired to focus. The upshot is that you can catch the tailend of excellent movies such as American Ninja 2: The Confrontation or Leprechaun 4: Space Platoon.

I've finished Fear & Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72; it's tremendous. I've started Travels With The Flea by Jim Perrin, and there is a stack of books queued up on the windowsill, read and to be read, the results of unpacking rucksack and room. I found my small map of the world, and I looked at the places I have been and the places I want to go, if I can ever twist my brain into the right shapes to enjoy them. I've been rereading my notes from my trip around Europe last year, while working on Trick Of The Mind... Jesus, no. The year before that. That would have been take-twenty-four... but there was nothing very happy about Vienna, about Monaco, about Venice, where the pigeons cluster on first-floor railings or skulk alone on mossy posts. I ripped them all apart. The hordes of tourists, or the worthless rich fuckers with expensive cars and trophy wives in cocktail lounges, the diners in street cafes, the orchestras competing for tips in the Plaza Saint Marco. I remember that American woman, the twist in her hair as she yelled at the band while they rested and shared a smoke.
“How much? How much for some more songs?”
“Madam, we cannot…”
“C’mon, how much son?”
“Madam, the first violin has gone…”
“Fuck the first violin, you’ll play better without him. Come on, how much?”

The fat joggers by the Danube, pointlessly soft porn in the hotel rooms, bins for dog shit, bins for drink cans, boulderers on bridges before I knew what bouldering was, drinking with Coops and Jenny in the hotel pool at 6am. Or in Mauritius, those long tunnels in endless sugar cane but almost hysterical on the plane home.

Too much time on autopilot and youll lose your sense of wonder, your sense of spite, and both are important. I'd like to feel settled anywhere for longer than three months.



"All you need is one more Saturday..."