What a week, i'll say, by George, that was some week. Went to London last weekend, armed with armfuls of jam and little tasty postcards. Sold some of them, all the jam. sold all the jam and then some. I drank too much and became an idiot: such is the Real of intoxication. In London I stayed in three different beds, which makes a nice change from the sofa that is usually my home. It sounds mighty salacious too. In one room, you had to go through someone else's room to get there; the next was an illegal loft conversion, and the last one had a bed that was falling apart. But each house had their own splendid blend of idiosyncratic hospitality. On the day Palestine became recognised by the UN as a non-observer state – is that right? – i was in the brockley mess having a cup of tea and writing my novel. the news came through on the BBC website and Beirut was playing on the stereo, the song called the Gulag Orkestar. OK, so it's only faux middle-eastern music, but it's more appropriate than Gaga or Barry Manillow or Mumford and Sons or anything at T in the Park. On that day, a shot of olive oil was in order, i'm sure you'll agree. Then myself and my comrade set up an exhibition in shoreditch. the printers screwed us around so we couldn't get the print we wanted. we won't go back – that's the free market for ya. Each day was marked by an inability to fulfil our objectives, but thursday came and went off pretty well. jammojitos, need i say more? banalograms, need i say more? it took a long time to drive from elephant to shoreditch in a overheating car and if there is one i learnt as a result of that ordeal it is this: never buy sausage rolls from shell garages unless you are sure they have been heated very recently. (also, check the water in your radiator) (finally, if sausage rolls are below expectation, do not use them as an alternative to water in the radiator.)
