I have recently learned that a particular hero of mine in the fields of both writing and drinking, the now long dead Jeffrey Bernard, christened his typewriter ‘Monica’. I have, in humble homage to that man, decided likewise to bestow upon this infernal machine a name, partly in the hope that this will make me less likely to hurl it through an open window when it acts up, which is whenever it is on, and often when it is not. As inanimate objects are most commonly given a feminine moniker, I have settled on ‘Hayley’. To sate the curiosity which has doubtless consumed you these last three seconds, Hayley is the name of the only girl I ever fancied with whom I am not still on even relatively frequent speaking terms. My only memory of her is, as a six year old, buying her a posh biscuit of some variety with my limited pocket money. If my infantile affections towards her were strong enough to merit the purchase of baked goods then she is as deserving a namesake for an electrical appliance as any other woman in my life, past or present, and a great deal more than some.
Such a shame then that the first thing I intend to conceive with Haley is what you are quite likely about to abandon reading. As ever these days, my brain is simply grey mush within its maned carapace, and so this symphony of slothful typing is merely an update on my scandalous life.
I am sitting, as is my wont, on the lazy-boy armchair in my new living room. I like to have the window open because, spending rather more time alone than was the case on Buccleuch Street, the dull hum of conversation from the beer garden in the courtyard outside reassures me that the nuclear holocaust is not yet upon us. Also, I enjoy how the setting sun turns the otherwise invisible haze of midges into a glowing spectacle far more agreeable than its entomological reality. I have not quite grown comfortable enough with my new bedroom and its remarkably Spartan desk to write or read through there, though with my books now lining every available level surface, and my innumerable cardigans and velvet jackets littering the carpet, it is starting to feel more like my room.
Moving home has been a rather harrowing experience. Although I was so desperate to vacate Buccleuch Street I may have started gnawing through the wall in my sleep, I shamelessly admit that I miss the old place. Fortunately, a remedial box of entirely consumable (if not drinkable) wine can be purchased from the Tesco across the Meadows for £4.29, and that walk is exercise enough to excuse my feelings of guilt at consuming (if not drinking) said plonk in a single evening. The requisite guilt is, however, waiting for me come morning, flanked by shame and, more often than not, the oppressive spectre of The Fear.
Jehovah, spare my ragged soul...
Jamie
