Well it’s Saturday night, and I’m at home typing this letter. How sad is that! I should be out on the Disco floor or riding a motorcycle over a cliff. I guess later the excitement will rise as we discuss carpet cleaning products (child vomits and plops on the carpet) or how I eat too loudly. What an action packed night ahead.
England is a dump. Dickens description fits well with today. We are a small Island with narrow thoughts, and limited ability. The trains should be in a museum. The Irish Sea flows with radioactive joy, and fish is consumed for it’s after glow. People shop without knowledge of how or where food comes from. The whole show reminds me of a massive computer, the instructions move to the beat of a clock. Where are all the mad inventors? You know the ones; they invented electricity, petrol engines, magnetism, and radio. England is not long for the future.
After about 2 years of very sporadic work, I landed a job with a Bank. The Bank I love to hate; Barclays Bank, and before you say anything the answer is “No”. There will be no bank transfers into your accounts no matter how many times you take me out on the boat or let me turn the wheel thing, and say “steady as she goes”.
I have to drive a car to work each day on the motorway at 70 Miles/hour. It’s really freaky but due to my intensive skills with video machines I try to think of it as a video game, and I have three lives. I guess it’s not real anyway. Do you think that’s air your breathing (Matrix)?
I miss that small Norwegian island, where the cats roam in summer, and Pottery depicting cats is sold. People laze on the beach with ice cream, and watch me swim and shout, “Bloody Hell it’s cold”. The sea facing side of the Island is barren, and you can see a lighthouse in the distance. My former manager Sverr Hanson took me over to that lighthouse in a small boat. He was drinking beer. That and the tall waves gave me concern. I was even more concerned when he said that he took a chance hiring me, as he didn’t know my background. I thought then that he was taking me over to the lighthouse for some kind of torture/ritual/pain thing. Pity really because I really like Lighthouses. Spoiled the day, and fuelled my paranoia.
Before the Bank job we decided to go on a weeks holiday in North Wales, along the coast. I suggested we stay at Port Merian where the TV show “The Prisoner” was filmed since I felt a kinship with the main character, who is held prisoner in what looks like a model village but in real size. I am held prisoner by two females, one of which turned into a Mother (wash this wash that, bla bla), and the other a small child who wakes up when it’s still dark, and asks for milk. I’m not a cow. Anyway it rained all week, and we drove down narrow roads the locals call motorways. When we got back I lost eyesight in both eyes and was diagnosed as having some weird eye condition which is extremely rare unless of course your me in which case ho hum. So I guess the motto is visit Wales and go blind. I’m now on eye drops, which are steroids so no doubt I’ll start to grow breasts and take a fancy to women’s clothes. I know what my mother would say, (imagine a Parrot squawking)…”Well at least you can see, that’s the main thing”. She really gets on my tits.
Glad you are both alive. I will contact you again in 7 years time unless of course the Space Ship comes back for me…bastards. They left me to rot. “Just go out and collect some samples”, they said we’ll be back later.