Because sometimes it's better out than in.


Work has been pretty hectic lately. Yesterday, Wil and I descended upon a sweltering London to pitch for some work at a special place. It was all quite rushed, and in the confusion that surrounded the preparation I realised I needed some appropriate clothing. Because I realised this fact an hour before our train departed, I was forced to rush into the nearest clothes store, which happened to be a vintage one. Without time to try anything on, I grabbed the first jeans and shirt that I saw and dashed out. Unfortunately, the jeans were too small and the shirt was too large. The jeans were light blue 501s and the shirt a very horrid green plaid number. Complete with my Chuck Taylors and beaufont hair courtesy of a distinct absense of shampoo that morning (I had to use soap), I looked like a reject from the Breakfast Club. Also, one of the legs of the jeans was noticeably shorter than the other.

I'm young, and one of my key aspirations is to be a respected, refined and wise person. Occasionally I get frustrated that I am none of the above, but then I think that this sort of thing shouldn't be forced. I should just enjoy my limited time as a youngster being brash, inconsiderate and loud. Wisdom (and the consistency thereof) will come later, hopefully when I have younger people around to pass it on to.

I bought a t-shirt of a zombiefied Uncle Sam. I'm getting a little bit bored of (still legendary) Horsebites shirts so I went for something different. Though this one is as delightful crude and garish. Half of old Sam's face is deteriorating, and his guts are hanging out.

I've read three Cormac McCarthy books over the last few weeks: The Road, No Country for Old Men and Blood Meridian. Being a highly superficial person, I bought the ones with the lovely cover designs by David Pearson. Now I have in front of me two films on DVD format and I'm deciding which one to watch first. I've already seen No Country for Old Men, but the performance by Javier Bardem as Chigurh is so captivating I'm leaning towards that. Also I fear that The Road maybe too bleak for a Saturday as lovely as this.

Tiny Predator is the name of my cat. She rolls around in my vegetable patch, flattening all the shoots. Today a odd-looking white cat with a large face appeared in our garden, and Tiny took particular interest in this ghostly intruder. The white cat had the cheek to act aggressively towards little Tiny, who only wanted to make friends, so I chased said intruder over the fence. We watched it's journey along the fences after this, and it nearly got eaten by our neighbour's chunky labrador.

The best reggae album ever written is Bob Marley and the Wailers' Exodus. It just sounds so perfect; not too much instrumentation, not too little. The songs, are unique enough to make each one captivating, but similar enough to make listening to the album one whole experience, as opposed to ten different ones. The song Jamming has the best introduction on the album, and the grooviest basslines are featured on Natural Mystic and Exodus.

Now that I've purged my head of all this largely unecessary information, I may now satisfactorily enjoy the rest of my Saturday, which no doubt will feature (in no particular order): hammock–time, ginger ale, weeding, visiting the green–grocers and the butchers, eating a samosa or two, ciders, white wine and BBQ'ed sausages.