A good writer always carries a notebook. Other writer like me are forced to improvise. I use the Notes app on my iPhone. However, the big round button that does everything on my iPhone only works one in every twenty presses, so I have to stick my ideas wherever I can when I get them. Recently, I have been writing them in the place that I use the most: Text Message boxes under random people’s names. And then I forget about them.
And what do you think happens next?
Here’s one I sent to my Doctor’s surgery:
“The rapid prototyping of identity is often arrested in early stages.”
To a female friend,
“My pendulous sweetmeats.”
And to our landlord:
“The awfulness of someone else’s suffering.”
So far, no-one has texted back.
Esther’s cousin Britney came to stay last week. Esther has been turning her phone off to avoid having to talk to her grandmother, who’s just got the internet (she described receiving an email as “she put her computer inside my computer”). As a result, Esther didn’t know Britney was coming and spent the morning pulverising every spot on her face.
“It was the worst I’d ever seen it,” described Britney when I saw her after work, “like she’d poured acid over her head. When I came upstairs and found her sat in bed she said;
“Look what I’ve done to my face! And there’s a poo rolled up in a blanket downstairs…””
This was a dog poo I’d discovered just before I left for work, having already trodden it up the stairs in my socks. As always, I was running late so Esther promised to take care of it. Britney arrived about 3 hours later, by which time Esther had got as far as wrapping it up in the blanket it was on and forgetting about it.
We’ve just finished watching both series of Game of Thrones and half of the new True Blood on our laptop. Esther saves time by fast forwarding through the opening credits. All day I’ve had the speeded up theme tunes running through my head, like the incidental music to head injuries in cartoons.
One of my students missed his appointment today. I have worked with him for over a year, but when he finally turned up 2 hours later he knocked on my door looking like he’s never seen me before, and said,
“Hello, I’m looking for someone called Vienna.”
Me: (applying logic) “Do you mean me?”
Student: (his expression softening) “Yes, that’s right.”
And then he hops into the seat next to me as if he always knew who I was.
Last time long haired brunette Lisa was left alone all evening, she decided to copy the hairstyle of a small boy she’d seen earlier that day on her road. He had a blonde mullet.
Today, she started to draw on her face to see what black hair would look like. She kept one half of her face as it was, and on the other side gave herself a fringe, and dark eyebrows and eye makeup. Then, she thought she may as well see if she suited being black skinned too and coloured in the rest of her face.
At this point, Alfie knocked at the door and she had to turn the lights & TV off till he went away again. I imagine she looked like a negative Phantom of the Opera skulking in the shadows.
“Well at least I know I don’t suit being black,” she says.
Last night we had a mini house party. When I retrieved my laptop from the living room this morning, I find the following two Google searches open:
cricket man walks in waz
hotels in kazakhstan
I have some strange friends.