14/06/2007
10:52
I enter, angry, bemused and glad.
I have been up for more than an hour and what a fucking hour it has been!

Got up as usual, whenever it was,
Cuppa, rake through dog ends to make a rollie, quick glance at gear situation, find enough for one, and only one!
Skin up, spark up.

I’d been writing for an hour, about?
I couldn’t for the life of me tell you! What?

Suffice to say it was a lousy, depressing, damp morning and I dismissed my first thought of returning to bed, immediately and began to write.

I find myself pausing, taking in huge mouthfuls of warm milky, weak tea and trying to remember what I’ve just written this morning.

Why the confusion? You may well ask.

At ten twenty five precisely,
The electric went off and I sat and thought fucking power cut.
I then thought how fucking stupid I looked sitting with a useless keyboard, staring at a blank monitor and a dead computer.
Fucking power cut,
I thought again.
In fucking June? I questioned.

I slowly eased myself out of the chair and glided almost by remote control towards the cupboard.
I have only one in the limited space allocated to me by the generous Housing Association,
I therefore refer to it as, the cupboard.
Inside this cupboard lives my electric meter,
It not only tells you the date units used, when used, what used them,
It also displays credit.
For this meter is of the prepayment type,
The ones, which save you from all the hassle of paying by direct debit, like millions of others.
No, this one demands extra attention for its unlucky owners.
It requires feeding via a key at all times of the day and night.

The bastard had indeed ran out,
It wasn’t a fucking power cut; it was numb nut forgetting to feed it.

I now had a dilemma, no not about driving, although that did cross my mind.

I would be forced to visit the local tobacconists to get credit.
It was what I’d considered my last £20 note,
Would I be strong enough to resist buying baccy?

All I had to say, I concluded was £20 on there please and all temptation would be swept away with the departure of all the available spending power.
In short, I succeeded and flush with success and the knowledge that there may be just enough tab ends left to squeeze another rollie out.
I returned home, took a half-mile detour to escape the blockage taken by one dustbin wagon, only to be confronted by a second, equally obstructive bin wagon, blocking my path.
One guy in a car, obviously, had taken the chance of hurtling around an area of green to get past,
I took a few moments to compose myself,
And allow this guy in the car to get past me.
I selected gear, drove slowly forward, cleared both the curb and the wagon with an inch to spare.
Half inch each side.
The wagon attendant stood at the rear, almost, but not quite gob smacked, he kept shooting anxious looks down the side of his precious wagon.
I plunged the key into the hungry slot of the meter and was immediately powered up.
It was then I felt the feeling swell in my stomach, become more pronounced as the motion gripped upon itself.
Had I saved what I’d been working on?
Of course not, how could I have done, too sudden.
How frequent have I set the save option?
I remember not.
Automatic save, I thought as I let out a sigh of relief.
Opened diary up and all is lost.
Not even the date to verify its once existence.

I must admit to being a little bit puzzled, surely auto save would have saved something, strange for everything, including the first line of date disappearing.
I decide to investigate.
I find auto save set to ten minutes so in theory I shouldn’t have lost 50 minutes work out of the hour which has gone.

Just glad the leckie didn’t go out while I was away, would not have been nice to return to.
I will add this is the first time I’ve been caught out like this and have had to learn the hard way about ways of losing material.

Wouldn’t half have been pissed off if it had been something important?
Possible hint of sarcasm to be found within.

Writing in real time is completely different to writing after the event.

I was writing up until the nano second when I was no longer with power.
If the writing had been saved it would have continued to flow in same vein.
Instead of being a chore in having to relate an event already well passed.

I decide that is enough catch up; whatever was thought earlier has similarly long since passed under the bridge, like some lucky fish who has slipped the hook, free to provide another chance at a later date for the angler once more to tangle with.

Writing is like fly fishing for trout in clear waters.
The more interesting logical thoughts are like the older fish, hook wise and therefore more of a challenge to land and concentrate upon.
Then there’s the young inexperienced fish that give their intentions away by making clear their movements towards the lure.
A good angler can mend his line and avoid the majority of these but often as not when playing for a particular fish he will troubled by their seemingly incessant attention.
The head becomes full of ideas circling like the fish in the water.
A line quickly jotted down without thought for why,
Signifies a successful landing,
The writer returns to the overcrowded pond almost instantly having no need to mend line or re tackle in any shape or form.
He tries to make sense of what’s on offer and decides as often as not to pursue ideas pertaining to one particular species in particular.
Often failing as the increasingly thin thread of reason and organization, beaks repeatedly.
As long as there are ideas and fish, there will be writers and anglers.

So how pissed off, was I?
Very.
I quickly argued for and against the scrapping of everything, no more writing, at all.
I then considered the idea of re-writing it, realised not being able to remember,
Would prove to be an insurmountable barrier.
So, I started again, hell it was only an hour after all.
What could be so important about what happened in an hour, first thing in the morning?

Its noon, the room is as cold as winter and I have exhausted all possible sources of tobacco, save for the car ashtray which is full of dead roaches left to die on their accord so therefore lacking tobacco remnants.

As an afterthought I click the save button.
Once again it reverts to US from UK.

Obviously the idea of authors reading aloud their own writing is brilliant,
Who else can understand the words and feel the emotion of the time?

Thoughts of a virtual recorder, microphone, and no more keyboard drifts by,
Would make sense, because sound track for it is already sorted.

I have sat through the monotony of the English winter to be rewarded with oppressive weather in mid June!

A nice chilled beer, sat in the sun, feet in a pool, sounds playing, food and dope available, surrounded by mountains, ocean views anything but reminders of the material world.

Sat in a decrepit recliner, in a small square, cold room, sipping cold tea.

I yawn and rub my hands together for warmth, my fingers have stiffened up, and the ends are becoming numb.

I happened across the weather for Skeggie and seems pissing down for foreseeable future.
What has happened to the sun!

To have a relaxing massage in the sun, heaven.

I seem to be going through a phase of hunting and destroying usage of the word and.
I find a lot of the usage unnecessary and consequently delete.