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◄ Head wounds; swings; the Blair Witch experience

FRIDAY. Leaving the country at weekends seems to be becoming a habit. Five-and-a-half hours alleged journey time between Wolverhampton and Edinburgh rapidly extended into an hour hanging around just waiting for the damn train to arrive in the first place. Thus far, writing this on the way up, nothing to really complain about, since I bought Private Eye and Metal Hammer in addition to the batch of books I got from Stourbridge library and all are keeping me pretty occupied. :D

About fifty pages into Hunter S. Thompson's third collection of Gonzo journalism, Songs of the Doomed, I rediscovered (possibly) why I'm doing this. The journal, I mean, not the trip (I'm supposed to be helping Andrew move flat and picking up a laser printer [note from the future: sounds easy, doesn't it?] for the return leg.) Quote:

I found out then that writing is a kind of therapy. One of the few ways I can almost be certain I'll understand something is by sitting down and writing about it. Because by forcing yourself to write about it and putting it down in words, you can't avoid having to come to grips with it. You might be wrong, but you have to think about it very intensely to write about it. So I use writing as a learning tool.

Part of me is now wishing I'd brought the laptop to save myself the copy typing, but I don't really mind. Editing is far more pleasant when you have something to edit, after all, and forcing yourself to stare at a flashing cursor is better suited to essaying...

Another part of me is quite staggeringly pissy with the remaining portion of my brain for forgetting the (possibly) magnificent opus of composition lost by my earlier disinclination to pick up a pen sooner. Oh, well. *shrug*

SATURDAY. Shifted lots of stuff. Quite amazing how much bigger Andrew's new room was once we got stuff unpacked a bit in there. Went to see Goldmember in the evening, which was decent enough—I just hope they don't try to milk yet another sequel out of it, because they're consciously repeating material already. Still, there were a few genuinely inpired bits of comic timing—particularly the Godzilla refs scene. :lol:

I can't remember whether it was this morning or next that I woke up having just mentally played-through a complete short play about a time-travelling council house, but anyway, the gist: A 1930s or 1950s terraced house is sucked back in time; plot revolves around the interaction of a passing policeman with the elderly modern inhabitants, with lots of reminiscing and discussion about the generational divide — the key aspect is that the 'modern' house is considered outmoded, and the temporal accident causes a re-evaluation of things. I think that the ending ran something like "What kind of world is this?" / "A thoroughly modern one", but I'm not sure. Dreams make more sense at the time, and aren't usually inclinded to add themselves to your long-term memory.

SUNDAY. Ouch. The laser printer is installed, and lovely, and didn't even jam despite its thirteen years and recent disuse. I love it. Hulking it on and off a train, a coach and a car I could have done without. They built things to last in those days... out of lead, apparently... so my old VCR now has competition for "item of electrical equipment most likely to survive a direct nuclear hit"... :)

Speaking of electrical equipment... got a shaver for my birthday I've only just tried out properly—great innovation, genuinely time-saving! May become indispensable...

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