Liadnan

The taxman did indeed take all my dough, but that was two months ago, and a month in the future, so though I continue to suffer for my poor financial planning it's hardly news. I did, however, spend this sunny afternoon lazing. To be frank, I spent the morning lazing too. My only real accomplishment of the day was completing a straight-through re-read of Lindsey Davis' Falco novels, and hoping once again that the possible upturn in the last one after three duds does indeed represent a return to form. Action on global warming clearly is needed immediately, or my productivity will continue to deteriorate. God knows what it would be like if I was working, say, somewhere the water temperature is 79F at 9AM.

I do love spring in London though. It's just unfortunate it gives me itchy feet, particularly as I grow older and the list of things I haven't done looks ever more hopeless. The breeze blowing through the window I am now able to leave open all night, and the daylight in my flat at times I'm there cruelly reveals its grubbiness. And Now 60 is out. The last time I moaned about time passing I think it was in the context of Now 59. Obviously that was only a month or so ago, but still, it bothers me.

My feet aren't itching to leave the profession, or even my branch of the profession (senior silks from nearby sets writing on the wall by heading off to join notably litigious Magic Circle firms and David F. Clementi not withstanding - no, I don't know if his middle initial is an F, but it is to me). I've already had a gear-wrenching change of life-plan once. But various things to leave me feeling like a change of scene, at least for a while, and I also want to do something else as well. Ruts need to be dug out of.

Sometimes, chance actually might be a fine thing. I've had more than enough of being single too, but I fear that may be a far deeper rut.

****

Heading back from lunch today, from Soho via Seven Dials, I noticed that the shop which has long had in its window a book of cut-out and keep paper dolls of His Holiness JPII (ventilator not included) now also has one of George W. Bush and family. What a wonderful world this is, that has such people in it.

I'm fucking furious: I've lost my pencilcase. Which doesn't sound like much, but (a) I've had it for years, it was leather, and I'm fond of it; and (b) it contained an antique Parker Duofold I was given by my mother when I was 18, a yardoled silver propelling pencil I was given by my godmother when I was 21 (and have you any idea how much those things cost) and the tiny brass Athenian owl I've carried around as a mascot for more than 20 years.

I suspect it's a result of being extremely drunk in the Bierodrome last night and having a crap bag that things fall out of. But I've retraced most of my steps last night, so far as I remember them, and no one seems to have it in their lost property.

***

Heigh ho. The vague muffled memories of last night are good ones. I have a suspicion I passed up an Opportunity because I thought they were too drunk to know what they wanted though. More fool me. Don't even have a phone number, though I think she has mine, for what that's worth.

***

I'm keeping an eye on I am Belle De Jour, because some of the responses are quite funny and there seem to be more by the minute, though unsurprisingly a fair proportion are a bit unoriginal. Interestingly, more than one person has suggested that BdJ is actually Lisa Hilton, which wouldn't entirely shock me, having read some of her work. Frankie, red11: either of you remember her?

Meanwhile, yesterday's Private Eye had a piece "copyright all newspapers" on "Who Is BelledeJour (cont. p94)"

And also a long, and fascinating, report by Paul Foot on the lunacy that is the PFI. Loony even in the opinion of many of Thatcher and Major's minions, it would seem. But that has nothing to do with this.

***

Off Away until next Tues.

(Edited to Add: Apparently, there is a god and I owe the charity of their choice thirty quid. Was in the Bierodrome after all, contents intact, just hadn't reached the lost property office.)

It's been a long and shitty week.

Actually, from the work point of view, it's only been two days, but they've been a very long two days. The flu whatever has pretty much gone, but it has left behind near total exhaustion after about two hours work. Which doesn't really cut it when you're in your first year of practice as a barrister and trying desparately to get as many sets of papers through as possible.

Whatever. At least I've got the freedom to say soddit and go home when I want now, or just take the day off entirely. So long as I'm prepared not to earn any more money that day.

Plans for the weekend are a bit fluid. I really ought to go and see my parents, since I didn't get around to it last week, and I have a hankering to go to Oxford and see people I haven't for too long, but I'm also feeling a severe case of London Inertia. The feeling, that is, that London holds all that any mortal could possibly want, and making the effort to go and see those who for some strange reason deprive themselves of this is just too hard.

Plus, I have the excuse that if I don't I might get around to doing some work, both barrister and writing work that is. It's a blatant attempt to deceive myself of course, if I stay in London I shall quite probably do absolutely nothing all weekend, but if I'm not entitled to kid myself, who is?

Having a bit of a blue period about being 30, with a side order of skint and single (though the 30 bit is the real problem, frankly). Why it should come now, 6 months after the event, I'm not entirely sure.