Days like vodka. Days like whiskey. Robertson Davies.

I think we all have them. I was talking to a friend the other day about working from home, and I said I thought it felt like having an afternoon of leisurely drinking with friends where you think you’re perfectly compus mentis until you actually talk to someone else and you realise you’re trollied. Like drinking vodka. Or whiskey. Actually, especially like drinking whiskey and ending up two worlds to the left.

This is one of those days. It’s like when you’re looking after a small child and you see no-one else. When you run into human company, you’re practically foaming at the mouth, you just don’t know it. Hair matted, bug-eyed and hopping all over the jungle, but you think you’re talking like David Niven. Simile, simile, simile. Dennis Hopper.

Which doesn’t really take us seamlessly into Robertson Davies, but there you go. I’ve been reading The Cornish Trilogy and it’s fantastic. Intelligent, wise and very human. I’d also recommend the Deptford trilogy – nothing to do with London and exceptionally good. Gets me off the Rebus for a short time. Stops me playing Pro Evo.

Must have a haircut.

Irregular is the new regular

Everything is the new nothing and you are the new me. Cliche is the new cliche and park benches are the new mozarella. Surrealism is the new laziness and sloth is the new cool. Old is the new new and new is also the new new. This post is my new post. Make of that what you will.

I am currently counting off the poetry gigs I host like an emotional doomsday clock’s second hand. (Six to go, max). I am also trying not to sound like I’m trying to sound like Raymond Chandler. I was a grain of sand on the desert of oblivion. I am going to see Alan Moore talk in Leicester in a couple of weeks with my very good friends Michael and Leo. This makes me very happy. Someone else’s gig. Bliss.

I find I’m liking having a beard more nowadays, even though it’s getting more white and wiry. I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Is that a good thing?