The various types of fear   Leave a comment

Received email from Simon Beard-Harvest Time telling me I’d left my minidisks up at the Portland. Shit. Disasters 1, Triumphs 0.
Devised plan where I would utilise the ludicrously small amount of free personal time available to me before my next gig to my best advantage. I’d pick up Syd from nursery with a bottle of milk ready in the hope that he would be asleep by the time we got to the pub.
Forgot bottle. Disasters 2, Triumphs 0.
Borrowed bottle off nursery. Syd asleep by Midsomer Common. Triumphs equalised. Get to Portland to discover that the minidisks that are there have nothing to do with me whatsoever. Disasters win again.

Night before last I dreamt I owned an answering machine.
Last night I dreamt I was in some decidedly David Lynchian world where Romanian people kept turning into vampire owls. Last image I remember was that of a bearded man flying at high speed over a Canadian-type landscape flames trailing from his feet. He then seemed to crash land into a woodland area, only to be immediately buried beneath a wooden cottage that was erected with supernatural speed, as though it was some sort of purpose built miracle to counteract the evil airborne vampire. You could see his limbs poking out the edges of the house. It sounds a bit silly now but it was so vivid and horrifying that when I awoke it took me at least a minute to stop feeling scared. There was something about rings too, rings that protected you…

Went back to The Glitches after Bad Timing to chill with my fellow art-terrorists V/VM. Discovered that the only tobacco we had in the house was in the ready-rolled that I’d brought with me, so after a bit of pleasant banter about the pointlessness of Carling Black Label I ignited and sucked deep. After all, it was mine. Of course about three minutes later I couldn’t do eye contact or speech and I thought that this time I really might just be having a heart attack. Saying goodbye was out of the question so I tried to concentrate on putting my coat on in the hope that someone would initiate the farewells nightmare for me. Unfortunately getting my coat on was only just within the perimeter of the question, and my tracksuit top ended up all bunched up at the sleeves and hood inside the jacket, and my arms weren’t really working to rectify the situation, like a granddad in hospital. I sort of slid out the door sideways like some sort of confused criminal while people said goodbye in nice, normal, non-fucked ways. Unfortunately I still had to get home (past the cops!) on my severely broken and supremely unserviced bike without having the heart-rupture and/or blackout I expected at any second. I got off my bike at the cycle bridge to minimise the risks of a major medical episode and then got on again when I thought that somebody was following me in order to rob and kill me. Finally I got home but as I crept round to Sam’s I heard Syd in the full throes of his latest infant malfunction (common to the majority of tykes his age): FEAR OF BED/NIGHT/BEING ALONE. He basically stands in his cot and screams and there’s a lot of tears and snot and you have to sit in the other room with your temples pounding and physically stop each other from going in to get him, because apparently that’s bad. I was in similar mental and physical trouble on Friday when I returned from the webcast (which, incidentally, in a very punk way wasn’t actually broadcast on the web) and Syd was at it again. Even Sam said I was unlucky.
We don’t whether it’s got anything to do with the e-numbers in the antibiotics he was on, or the fact that one of the carers at his nursery has left, or what the fuck, but apparently a few of his contemporaries are doing it too.

Christmas is slowly covering the surface of the national consciousness and I’ve done arse-all about it. Normally I begin scoping the chazzers at the end of October for a budget Yule (I remember working out that I’d spent £15 in total on everybody one year), but I’ve had so little time and energy that I’m just going to do it executive-style this year, and either get the wife to do it all, or buy things randomly in the final couple of days. This morning Syd was pointing through the window at nursery at a little nativity scene in the green room, going “Sat?” (I.e. explain, please, Dad). It was 8:30AM and I didn’t really want to be doing with the Baby Jesus so I was like “Oh, farm stuff”.

Posted December 9, 2002 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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