May. 18th, 2017

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I was out of the city most of Monday and Tuesday when they found and detonated an unexploded WWII bomb near the Aston Expressway. I've no stories to tell; I only found out about it Tuesday night via Facebook. I was talking to a lovely couple about it in the Wellington last night. They lived too far away to be affected by the bomb, but one of their parents had remained in Brum as a child when it was being Blitzed. It rained like prison bars all of yesterday and by the time I left the shop at four we'd made just over a hundred pounds. The only good part of that day was finding the Gormenghast board game for a couple of quid. I'm not one of nature's gamers - it's like superheroes, one of those geek things I can never get my head round - but I couldn't not get this one.

Moodwise, I'm not great. I feel low, brittle:  socially skittish (I feel like I need company, then when I get it, I withdraw inside myself and feel all the worse for being a bad friend; it is all too easy to feel walled up) and have crying jags I'd rather nobody saw. I have this feeling that I open my mouth and all that comes out is vacuous, glib, fatuous bullshit. The same with writing. The words all feel like clay I can't shape. I know I'll pass out of this feeling - I've managed it before, I will again. But the sooner the better, please.

Other people's words are fine, though. The TBR pile includes Judith Thurman's Secrets of the Flesh: A Life of Colette and John Fowles' essay The Tree. Enjoyed the picaresque of Monkey/Journey to the West but it's always a shame when tricksters turn to the light.


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