I wrote this yesterday while staying at my grandma's. Little else to do so half yesterday and half from today. I started my painting of Rome, and it's already looking good, and will be here when finished (though being bigger hope the system can fit it in. I've also decided to get a digital camera having seen the results others have got, and know few pictures of my part of London exist online so hope to make Hampstead Garden Suburb, Temple Fortune and Kingsbury famous.
I just found Jeremy Taylor's website www.jeremytaylor.info and learnt many fascinating facts about him, his age and the fact he was actually born in England (though I assume went to South Africa pretty early on). I emailed him, hoping he'd remember me from our brief meeting in the 70s, but mainly my grandpa who he did know. I also asked him to call LBC who I also rang with the information, and they'd recorded my song for further use but hadn't filed it on the computer yet. I'd like him both to hear it, call in and also make the song popular again for this generation as it made his career in 1962.
I went to bed earlier than for years at grandma's as there was nothing else to do, and of course didn't sleep for a couple of hours as I wasn't used to it, and still woke up relatively late, but it's a start.
Another little item of news (nothing new, just probably here) was the dreadful details of what passes for a sex life. Being single it's not obvious like married bloggers where we get it from, if at all, and I know few who tell but is likely to attract more interest than where I go shopping. The major reason for keeping quiet was the main source (all exes) is married, so I didn't want to point any fingers. Being the single one it's her choice, her idea, and I'm one of a few so won't make any difference if I didn't. But I have a pleasure meter and everything with the exes I do see barely makes it move, where all the good ones I almost never made it with could go up to a 9 just from a touch. All quality based, which is how I became so bitter and twisted as anyone (male and female) who says it isn't important is either physically or psychologically castrated (or whatever the woman's equivalent is). Women can turn it of indefinitely as many widows I know who literally forget it's there until a new man wakes it up. Men can't cover it up, it seems to be like the sun in a clear sky throughout waking time and I personally wouldn't want it any other way as I'd be dead (emotionally) without it. Ready and willing, just rarely used, like having a Ferrari in the drive and no money to insure it.
I also decided if I ever get famous enough to get a book published, it'll be about my grandma. No one could create her views and monologues, and her fixation with bodily functions is a wonder to behold- "Have you been excused?" Have you been open" "I went three times in an hour" "I used half a roll of toilet paper today" "The doctor says I have to put them in my anus" (I think I made that one up but she'd tell everyone if he did) "Have you done something (no) well you smell like you have" etc etc.
Combined with a photographic recall of every meal, phone call, sleeping and waking time, it's like seeing a rerun of a security camera highlights. And if she can she expects the same details from us- "Where are you going" "When will you be back" "Who was that- do I know them?" "Did you wash your hands?" "Have you combed your hair (an incredible one really, if you look like you have, then say nothing, if you look like yo haven't then say so. I just realised that... "Why didn't you tell me you were going out?" "I phoned three times but you weren't in- why not?"
This is the tip of the iceberg of what could be one of the largest non fictional characters to hit the bookshops. Just planning it here to see how far it can go, but the more I look the more I find. Like the time we drove past a sewage farm and she called to the back of the car "David, was that you?" Like I could make that smell all on my own... "No, if I could I'd be in the circus". I see a rich vein of material, the last gem being when she shouted to my grandpa, no longer with us, "Ivor! The cat's doing its business in the garden!" to which he gave the only sensible reply "What do you want me to do? Tell it to stop?"
I hope I haven't exhausted the total material already, but this is my test posting and see how it progresses.