Everyone I know has been desperate to get to the release of the bank holiday weekend, four days when you don't have to think about work. Or at least a day when you have the hangover of whatever was happening at work, two days of not thinking about work, and then a day of anticipating being back at work.
That's been the pattern of much of my life. I have never been good at getting enough rest, although it's notable that over the past couple of days, I have had more sleep than usual. I've been exhausted: getting to bed between 10-11pm and hitting sleep well before midnight, both of which are pretty unusual for me. Perhaps, finally, I am learning to rest.
This week I have been writing...
Outlining never feels like writing, which is why I hate doing it. It's a necessary evil, though. Without an outline, I get bogged down in the minutiae of the scene, and they drift on... and on... and on...
This week I have been reading and watching
The Mandalorian this week was best described as "absolute trash". With guest appearances all over the place, the writing on it felt really weak compared to the last few episodes. Very disappointing. And that's about all we have watched this week: it's very much been a "not much TV" kind of time.
I have, though, laid in yet more books on to the "to read" pile. From the second-hand heaven that is Ghost Papa in Margate came Mick Farren's Give the anarchist a cigarette, which details his days from early beatnik in Ladbroke Grove to drug-smashed former hippy turned punk in... Ladbroke Grove. And alongside Farren came DM Thomas' The White Hotel: Thomas, too, was tangential to the same scene in the '60s, with much of his early poetry published in New Worlds magazine alongside the likes of M John Harrison, JG Ballard and (of course) Michael Moorcock.
Also purchased: Julia Armfield's Our wives under the sea. I like her collection Salt Slow a lot, and I'm keen to see how this one goes.
