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Monthly Archives: October 2021

visual

 

Just emerging from a migraine that’s lasted 8 days so far.

Very strange visual disturbances – see below for a representation of what I see. I wake during the night and am presented with this sort of thing, across my entire vision. The only difference is the image I see ripples and moves like liquid.

Very trippy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Other times my dreams are rendered monochrome, or even completely black, and are accompanied by nightmarish events.

Not so pleasant.

 

Hurley

Last year I published a book called London Rain, which was a collection of stories featuring Julien Trent, free-climber and thief turned agent with the Government-sponsored RAIN unit.

It worked well.

This year, after a hiatus of some months, I began working on something with a similar structure – shortish, connected stories – about a radio phone-in show host who gets involved in some lightweight mysteries. The book and the character are called Hurley. I planned it in some detail and will now spend the next few months writing it.

scaled

 

I can play saxophone to a reasonable standard. I prefer tenor, but I’m eqully fluid on alto, maybe more so. But being the contrary fellow I am, I decided to focus all my energy on playing soprano sax, which is much harder to play.

It’s pretty much a different instrument.

Today as I worked my way around the scales, I paused for a moment and said, ‘To work hard on improving something you can’t do well is good for you. It’s good for you.’

No one else was there.

It is good for me. It’s a steep hill and it’s high but I’ll keep plodding on because I can’t see me ever wanting to stop. I could step off and play alto, which is the bomb for busking, or tenor, which is my favourite of the two, but I’ll keep on practicing soprano, and talking to myself.

 

 

I went into my home town of Sunderland yesterday, first time in ages. I don’t go there often, the place is a bit of a state, but I needed a birthday card and there’s a Waterstones in the shopping mall. Leaving the car park the first thing I saw were two people sucking on cigarettes. Across the road were three fat skinheads, wearing football shirts and supping pints in the open window of a pub. I spotted three separate people with blue hair. Blue hair used to denote Woke but it’s quickly morphing into Chav, in the same way that Burberry went from posh to football hooligan in under a year.

It was a three minute walk to Waterstones, and on the way I spotted six closed shops, including Debenham’s, the biggest shop in town. It shut at the beginning of this year. The town was quieter than I’ve ever seen it.

I stopped in Waterstones and had a coffee. The woman who served me was friendly and the coffee was nice. A woman sitting opposite me was wearing one of those scarves that indicates treatment for chemo. She was struggling with a sachet of brown sauce, the type you get with a bacon sandwich. She looked over to me and said, ‘Can you open this for me?’

Which I did.

Downstairs, after my coffee, I paid for the card and discussed the long-term health benefits of red wine with the woman behind the counter. Then I walked back to the car park, noting once again that northern women do not wear skirts or dresses. Ever. They wear leggings or jeans. Unless it’s Friday night, of course. Oh, and the town is white. I’m talking 99% white going by what I saw. There was one group of migrants, huddled together looking like they weren’t happy to be there, but otherwise. White. This isn’t good or bad, it’s not a judgement on race or otherwise, but it does indicate the extent to which no one who wasn’t born here is interested in coming to here. This is a town you leave. It’s not a place to arrive.

But as I always say, after I’ve described how bad the place is, I have to say everyone I spoke to was really friendly. That cliche of the open, chatty northerner seems to hold true.

We used to build more ships than any river in the world. We dug the coal that powered a revolution*. Now we build more cars here than Italy. And we have more call centres than anyone outside of Wales or India.

Dunno what I’m trying to say. Change, I guess.

 

*An old miner once told me there were seams of coal a mile or so below where I sit drinking my MaccyDs coffee, seams that are a dozen feet high. A hundred years of coal, he said. Within five miles of this site there are at least a dozen other closed down coal mines.

 

“People who love books, love autumn.”

Danny James.