the mysterious dichotomy of the JB
A Prarie Home Companion

recordings in no particular order

Being married is good because you always have a partner (who is obliged) to suffer social duties with you.  I always thought, similarly, it'd be easier for twins to get over those difficult days, like first day of school, pre-school and whatnot. Someone to fall back on.
Same kind of thing with JB, my stalwart, constant companion and cosmic twin.

Spike and his Mummy came to visit yesterday morning. He is somewhat potty-trained. I say somewhat because his timing is a little off. He is inclined to comment on the happening after the fact, instead of a more desireable anticipatory comment. And so it was that he remarked in that way he has: Poo.
We were out in the garden. There was a hurried fixing up and showering off and he was like new. He has got bigger while he was away, has a tan, a few new words (although his style is now to repeat the word until he gets the reaction he wants, as in: Teeth. Teeth. Teeth. Teeth. Teeth. Teeth!. Teeth. Teeth. Teeth! Teeth.
Yeah Guy! she has big teeth, doesn't she?
It is to be hoped he doesn't take to doing this in supermarkets, to real people.)

I may have a slight sunburn. The yellow orb, it has returned and it burns.

Saw the Freud exhibition at IMMA. Found the pieces surprisingly small in scale and though beautiful and energetic, not quite the substantial body of work of genius I had imagined.

Then Anne and I had a sandwich in the formal gardens and talked about our building projects and all was sunny and relaxed.

Worked quite hard this week on the site for Chris (heretofore to be known as Demented Millionaire Cartoon Boss) on his site for his DVD D*wn Patrol in Kid K*lp. Which yes, is a perfect mirror image of his mad mad mind. (Oooh, you know, bots, I haven't even started blogging, I haven't even stratched the surface, when I think of the material I have in that Loon. Oh, happy happy day that will be).

Planning to do PrintMaking as an evening course in NCAD. I have that lovely lovely back to school feeling. Oh, the excitement of being brought in the car to DunLaoire or Stillorgan to get new shoes, a new school bag, new pencils! A new transparent plastic set square in a tin (which I never used in my whole career, except as an impromptu weapon to poke the boys I liked. Because in my school this is how you treated them, with fevered energy and many kicks and swings of the school bag. It was inverse psychology, I presume).
I loved school. It was so intriguing.

During the week I cycled to a rendezvous (the wonderfully awful M*ntrose Hotel) to meet our builder, and hand over a considerable sum of money (which I am interested to see he banked asap) in the school dinner smell of the carvery lunch being served around us to a motley crew of unlucky tourists and unluckier salesmen. He seemed more human this time though. He asked as apropos of, well, nothing, how we had met. We confessed our prosaic meeting in a AGM of a walking club in Landsdowne Hotel. His story was more interesting: he nearly ran over his wife on a street in London, jumped out of the car to peel her off the tarmac and help her collect her belongings, got talking, asked her for a drink and the rest isn't history, although it is to them.

Darkness falling. Moths jumping on my screen. I am sitting in the blue glare of the monitor as the sound of the tellybox below filters up. Who wants to be a millionaire (apart from Chris, har), and some review show about British horror films or a danceoff or something.

I must go and see if there's a sunset. 9.28pm GMT


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