midnight musing

so as i was lying in bed, listening to a bass drum of terrible sound quality thumping its way into my skull, being aurally tormented by shrieking girls, chanting yobs, and a select few who were singing oasis miles out of key, visually tormented by the flashing lights, which somehow managed to penetrate even my curtains, and concentrating on the fact that i just couldn't sleep, it occurred to me:

i hate people.

and so begins the mild hysteria

"home. what's home? home on the electric range? where the buffalo roam? where the heart is? where you hang your hat? the buffalo are all in zoos, and nobody wears hats any more, which makes it difficult to locate this place - home." - jay mcinerney.

dear jay, i know where home is. home is in the place of fatal snow-fall. i can no longer move in my bedroom for the sheer amount of boxes and bags that have accumulated on the floor. none of this will fit in the car anyway. so if i don't suffer "death by snow" i will probably suffer "death by heavy object" or "death by citroen saxo with an overdue m.o.t.". call me paranoid if you will but i really would like to get home. if not, goodbye cruel world.

life in russia

to be ann frank, i wish i lived in russia. these people are much better equipped for terrible weather. it makes me angry to see the gritters interviewed every winter saying "we just don't know if there will be enough grit to go around". i mean, somebody should say, "get some more grit". we should learn from our mistakes. essentially, this complaint is about me having to drive from cambridgeshire back to essex on saturday. the way people are talking about our centimetre of snow makes me feel like i'm awaiting death if i venture onto the roads. so, if i die, spray my corpse with chanel no.5, and if i live, i'm migrating to russia next winter. join me, won't you?

the logistics of contemplating life in a well

this feels like one of those diaries you write in when stranded on a desert island. so, i've been thinking long and hard about my existence, and i have decided, that in the words of haruki murakami, i should probably climb down a well and do some thinking. but, in the words of mumford&sons, i'm afraid of what i will discover inside (inside my mind, not the well). but then i thought, where can i find a well? they aren't so easy to come by these days. on consulting others, it became apparent that if my car were to break down and i were stranded in the snow, my thoughts may arrive at the same place as if i were down a well. at the same time, that seems a high price to pay. so in short:

i want to find a well, but i can't find a well.