Putting mouth where face is

It's relaxing to have some patina of anonymity. I just disabled my old blog as it's being linked to by a genuine madman, and I'd rather not have that mild worry of his grasping digits fumbling through it looking for ammo. He's got some sort of vendetta with someone I know, and has taken the time and psychosis to set up a blog pretending to be him. I remain convinced there are only 17 intelligent-sensitive-witty-charismatic-beautiful individuals now living, but I'm now wondering what the stats are for actual grown-ups.

Come to think of it, I should disable a link or two here also for now. I'm not about to sucked into anyone else's personal hell, thank you.

At present no one knows I'm here, to my knowledge. In the giddiness of liberation I could proceed to pour out my gnarly heart and eager spleen about everyone I know. I could empty the box of my burdensome brain in a huge puff of thinky-dust. But it's not actually that tempting, I find. No. It's not. Some of it I've done, and discovered there's a limit where I thought you could just dodder on forever; some of it I've just got no desire to do. Some things there are no escaping - others are surprisingly easy to outwit.

"There's a hooker on the bed!"

"Hello!"

"Don't move. Their vision is based on movement."

"...Hey, where'd you go?"

Work is agreeable. Looking at a dissertation about drug use, which is actually well-written and frustratingly readable for 155,000 words of something which needs to be shipshape by tomorrow afternoon. At least in this case I know I'm making genuine, if tiny, improvements, like brushing the lint from a tailored coat; as opposed to putting a sprig of parsley on a ruined dinner which would have been inedible even if cooked properly, which is what I'm used to doing.
Then something exciting and internal for one of the high street banks - my own, in fact. I hope they'll remember me, although not too clearly, obviously. Most of a book to get through next week. Another fine mess. Not only is it in one long long long sentence mostly unfettered by punctuation, with capital letters Sprinkled at random, it's incoherent babble. Incoherent fundamentalist Christian babble, thus barely cogent to begin with.

And then it's socialising interspersed with flat-hunting, or vice versa. Here, it's been raining, and fireworks have been going off in the mid-afternoon, and drunken students have been stumbling into next door's garden talking loudly in the early hours. This place is not right in the head.

Multi-word bile-up: many dead

There was much to make the brain cry bitter tears about this interminable, incomprehensible PhD I had to tackle today, but it was perhaps this which finally did it:

The urgent need to transfer information from one computer to another has arise heavily after information is generated in large volumes and started to bile up all over the place in mangers' desks.

There was more - oh, there was so much more - but for now I'm just glad it's all behind me.

The aim, by the way, is to get back to London by the end of the year, which is lumbering ever closer like a big old zombie with a tambourine. Once ensconced, we'll figure out the rest. It will involve writing. It will involve debt. It will involve driving even if it kills me and/or innocent bystanders. And it will involve the healthy, considered and ruthless sitting-on of persistent irks of the mind like a big old zombie trying to close an obstinate suitcase. And succeeding. With a tambourine.