It's not my birthday

Moving house is pure, unadulterated, inexpurgated hell. I reccomend doing somthing different. Shit, I've just checked the time - It's not my birthday any more. Being forty is now the sort of thing I just have to get on with.

Piss. Horror. Wank. Terror. Piss.

PACKING

And packing it all day. Martin came round in the evening to collect his porta-studio gubbins and we went for a couple of glasses of wine, and I tried to convince him to start a new band called The Suitors where he would dress like Jacques Dutronc* and write songs that are funny. He's one of the wittiest people I know - why not write songs that showcase it a bit.

Laura, my beautiful sister, also came round, bubble-wrapped our paintings and tried on Kelly's faux breasts. Bosom related fun was had by all. It was like a Russs Meyer film without the self-regarding, self-obsessed ante-post modern fannying. I'm looking at you, Ebert.

Packing is a miserable thing to do on your own. Am gaffa-taping boxes watching Lilly Allen's "From riches to rags" against her wishes. I don't care - I rather like Lilly Allen.

* Then, not now. His "now" look is a bit THEN JEHRICO

Slow, slow, quit, quit, slow

I have found a pleasant pub in North London! The Charlotte Despard on Archway Road (nowhere near me, obv) is foody, well proportioned, with film posters on the wall and a not totally awful wine list. And there is no one in it, which is obviously the best feature of all. It is ten past four on a Wednesday afternoon so this may well be subject to change, should the knock-kneed pant-displaying multi-hatted community make the trip down from the Boogaloo, just up the road.

I'm waiting for Kelly to emerge from her psychologist's appointment in Hill House just around the corner( I exclusively and amusingly refer to it as Hell House as i'm exactly that sort of tiresome prick ). My own appointment at the same building is on Thursday - we have his 'n' hers psychologists, like wedding-present towels. Though our dirty laundry is kept under wraps!*

I have resigned from work, or at least have attempted to engage the subject of resigning, with my manager yesterday. My lengthy and pathetic e-mail got an out-of-office reply with the promise that he would be in the office today. No reply. Even my quitting after a decade of work is farcical. This never happened to Patrick McGoohan!

*he said, writing his blog...