I'm just a cock-eyed pessimist

It appears my comments in support of the WestEnd Whingers have inadvertently angered an out of work hobbit. Ah well. Poetry ensues.

Cold weather plus heavy blanket plus melatonin equals a really good night's sleep. I probably could have got a head start on it during the play last night but I didn't want to miss my train.

Proust: I'm at page 204 of Time Regained. He's been on a long rant about the value of art, which I think will ultimately lead to him beginning to write his novel. Last night I was reading a bit that, I'm pretty sure, said if you didn't try to express the impressions of the art you've seen/heard/watched, you hadn't actually accomplished anything by experiencing it. I liked that.

Heart: 163/92 this morning, horrid, horrid. I expect the stress at work yesterday kicked it up. (Really, I don't just avoid unpleasant people and situations because I'm a wimp; it seems to negatively affect my health.)

Dagnabbit, I just found out Echo and the Bunnymen are performing Ocean Rain - with a full orchestra - at Royal Albert Hall.

Tonight.

And there are tickets available. (At £37, but still.)

Only I'm doing something else. With people. As in "have made a commitment and owe money" and everything.

Poo.

poh, aside from the lack of dojo, why is it you don't live here yet again?

So ... I've reviewed "Landscape and "A Slight Ache," which I saw last night, on my other blog. In summary: no.

Tonight I'm going to see a play with the Whingers at the Old Vic. I don't even know what it's called, but since they're such good company I'm not too bothered.

Zorro has unfortunately been put off, but I feel confident I'll get to go eventually - it looks like it will have a long run.

Time to shake out the penny jar and send money to the Obama campaign, I think.



This kind of makes it clear, don't you think?