Freedom

Yes, freedom again, it's Tuesday evening and for at least a day, so far, I am free.

Nothing planned or expected, and not a single person I know yet seen me on TV. Goodness knows if I hadn't told anyone...
Today was a day of recovery (apparently) from the densist, though I slept OK I still felt worn out most of the day, and my limit of activity was going to the little post office for stamps for my good friend in the States and some milk and eggs. This is Kingsbury, representative of every small suburban way of life since the 1920s I expect. Few horse drawn milkfloats and hearses nowadays, trams and trolleybuses just a distant memory of some, and cars on the road that look like they've been designed by a class of infants. But the small shops, though no longer staffed by local families who have owned them for generations, are still there, and if you walk far enough from the main shopping centres you can still find isolated groups of a few shops where you still don't often have to queue.

Another item of news that improved things a little was the fact I had asembled my new chair back to front. My father came round and we saw an advert for it that made it clear bits were facing the wrong way. I only managed to destroy one of 12 screws while trying to force the parts together, and having been put back the way it was designed seems to both slope in the correct direction, and have a non-advertised tilt mechanism which I still have to get the hang of. But I don't expect to return it now, even though the company called Pell from somewhere in the Fenlands has plastered the word 'leather' all over the literature even though there's more leather on the moon than in the chair.

So, the calm after the storm, like the times there's nothing on TV, is leaving me with many choices and few ideas. That is normally the time when I meditate, and may well do tomorrow. There aren't many photos left on my list (or free space in my flickr album) though my postal course has slipped way behind and should have some attention this week. Apparently all press contact has to be via the TV company so I can't ring the local paper and ask them if they want an interview (which I have done long ago when I wrote my booklet on counselling). Ten years, and seems like a few weeks ago... It was, I remember, the first time I'd had a photo taken where I couldn't disguise my thinning hair. I haven't been to Harrow for ages, mainly because most of the things they have are available a lot nearer. I had an interview at the local paper office there and a photo taken, and somewhere still have the article. Needless to say a small piece in a few local papers doesn't create fame. TV is the only medium that works, and mainstream at that. I've been studying the field for a while now as intending to use it, and have now built the equivalent of a tiny statue on the panorama of the TV world. One so small and hidden only a chance passing view would spot it, but there nonetheless.

Next month Tommy Boyd is back every day like the old days at work, he won't be on the radio near me so I'll have to listen online, but I'll keep my regular calls up as always. In a few weeks the garden will start need working on again, and finish a few spots of paint outside the house. I think the person's moved in next door, a typical rich school-leaver (4 by 4 with personal number plate and probably about 22 though I haven't actually seen him yet), and unlikely to have anything in common with me. Well I certainly won't give him my website after those comments... The amount of money his family must have spent on the house (which apart from the kitchen looks identical to me) would be close to what we paid for a house not that long ago. And of course no attempt to introduce himself to me either, a standard feature of London life nowadays.

Finally apparently another major psychic let-down is on the horizon. Unless very careless in his reporting, Major Ed Dames has let down the whole research establishment by breaking a major Major's promise (sorry...). "I will be holding the first ever press conference with an alien in February 2006 and will report what happens whatever does". No he won't. I've finally found a way to contact him (which he makes virtually impossible for average users) and to date have had no reply and even had my thread in his forum locked down with no reply by official sources. At least his students can see the sort of operation he seems to be running. I'll be back there by the end of the week if no reply. One by one the claimants fall by the wayside, and Philip Krapf and Mark Hazelwood are two biggies of the last few years. Also Laurence Gardner's white gold powder creating anti gravity effects was blasted out of the water by the laboratory he quoted in an article. Ed Dames was meant to be one of the good guys, but I am discovering more and more data to sideline him off the rails and into the buffers of the next dead end. I hope this week proves me wrong but I think the scent of cattle manure is in the air.

So, a clean slate at last. No aggravation and no pleasure I am aware of, besides the relief of no aggravation which is probably closer to enlightenment than any state I know (as I am happy for no reason). I am going to phone MSN regularly to see if their text watches will be produced here soon (I have had a piece of inside information, but third hand), and have an uphill task to locate an old file since a webpage I was searching has lost most of its search facility. I have no idea where it is but I didn't get rid of it. So, that's the situation as Tuesday passes to Wednesday, I'm not famous yet and have yet to receive any contact from the many aliens who tell me they can talk to us directly via my hypnotic subjects. My grandma added the general opinion on seeing my minute of exposure to say 'was that all?', which she would have said had I had a whole series on BBC if she had found the slightest fault with it. She would see a glass as worthy of returning if not at the pint line, let alone half empty, that's our old Polish/Russian background of cynical poverty, and one hard to shake off after three or four generations in the new country.