Day before Windows cut me off, thinking my hotmail account had been taken over. It hadn’t. I’d just cack-handedly forwarded an email from Quentin on the Dadaoist [sic] Anthology to publicise it. Even Quentin complained. Trish must be apoplectic but I didn’t want to exclude her and just at the moment I should not, I forgot she would most certainly not want to be included in what looked so like spam I’m sure she’s little cause for concern, but: abject apology Trish.

I’d been too busy with my present psychological case (John, who’s irritating the hell out of me so that seeing him through his latest attempt to slough off drug-addiction, his so-called last chance, seems doomed to failure since he clutches at any excusing straw to keep it) to blog. My music had driven him out last time. He is a man who thinks Tchaikovsky’s Pathetique scary as shouldn’t be. “You’re talking shite,” I reasonably argue, adding, however, that scaring is an aesthetic effect to be much commended.

Just at the moment I was considering blogging, I couldn’t ever again. The loss of hotmail made me despondent. I was less than interested on John’s late return to hear the west of London was hooching with police all intent on stopping and questioning him. He accused me of rudeness. It got worse that night when the secure outside door was being banged on and he was up out of bed like the yo-yo he’d been till then, peering out the curtains at the reflection of who it could be banging: two guys, one in white, neither recognisable and nothing to do with me. I went to sleep. Apparently my buzzer went all night and there were police outside Leslie eventually let in. Surprisingly I missed all that I couldn’t really account for until Tina told me she seen Leslie in the street with his face messed up. This didn’t really account for it since Leslie had fallen on his face by his own account. Yvann added that his door had been banged on at three in the morning.

Before I could blog, on the assumption I would be able to when as it happened I wasn’t, I had to compile an email to my housing liaison officer, which I was unable to do then either, about the theft of Diana’s cat bowl. The mean thief had taken advantage of her being hospitalised, maybe after threatening somebody with a knife but who knows? to steal the bowl, an upturned pyrex lid, when I’d been left the cat to feed and therefore the responsibility. It is not the first time. Two previous bowls have been stolen. With the retrieval of my hotmail account, I was able to say so, trusting the landlord did not unwittingly authorise the thefts which, considering they occurred over a period of years, have to be by somebody, or somebodies acting in concert, in the block, persecuting a poor woman already pursued by her own demons, as I put it.

I told a neighbour I’d reported the thefts. She’d convey I had. Lo and behold the bowl was by the compositor where I’d find it.

Back to blogging and the usual problem: what is there to say?


About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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