It's not like I don't deserve it, though, having spent last week up Midlands way, organising an exhibition which veered from well-oiled ideas machine to the equivalent of a bloomer-flashing French farce. At one point, myself and the (French) CEO of the somethingorother Academy were maniacally stuffing bags with photocopies of a presentation (half of which are missing page 10 or upside-down in one way or another), while the PA mithered spectacularly in that way that only PA's truly can. Good clean executive fun.

Aside: the neighbours. Are holding. A motherfucking. Bongo workshop. I thought this only happened to people on television.

I hope you're all fine. I have a feeling that I'm doing this 'graduate' thing quite badly (too much hedonism and elaborate sex a year or so too late), but plan to make up for it next year, and am Applying for Things. Management consultancy looks good; come up with a buzzword now and then and earn £100k for the privilege. A friend of mine's moving to some sort of artist's...thing (Commune? Retreat? Nexus?) down Camden way, which temporarily made me want to be some kind of media darling, but right. I'm not altogether fussed, because I still live in a brilliant place and wake up in the morning alive.

Mi thoughts are a-forming to de riddim of de bongos, mi thoughts are a-forming to de riddim of de bongos.

Fucking hell.