Asbos

Fuck fuck ouch.

Spent Sunday blissfully ignoring the looming Monday rolling in the grass dressed as a leopard at a party in the grounds of a mansion in Dorset.

Unfortunately our driver only stopped drinking at about 3pm. Every time we questioned him about his sobriety he said: 'Right, I won't drink anything from now on'.

We sent him to get his head down for 2 hours and when the time came to find him his car was mysteriously empty.

He'd crawled into someone else's empty tent to lie there, not sleeping.

Made a slight mishap by offering a guy I met on the 'floor a lift back to London. When it came to the crunch there was no room and we had to drop him at a train station. Poor guy. Lesson learned about allowing my twisted sensibilities to rule and offering things I can't deliver.

Fiona Apple

'When the pawn hits the conflicts he thinks like a king
What he knows throws the blows when he goes to the fight
And he'll win the whole thing before he enters the ring
There's no body to batter when your mind is your might
So when you go solo, you hold your own hand
And remember that depth is the greatest of heights
And if you know where you stand, then you know where to land
And if you fall it won't matter, 'cause you'll know that you're right.'

Pain Pain Pain

I have to confess to thoroughly looking forward to my visit to A & E this week. I always see something morbidly interesting and, as previously discovered, it has a tendency to reaffirm how easy and painless my life is - or was pre-accident.

This week it's a rasta whose metal plate has broken inside his wrist. *Toes curl, face adopts position of fear and lemon sucking qualities* Double ouch.

The poor guy is holding his misshapen looking arm out to the stony faced receptionist going: 'I can't work maaan. Me hand is totally useless maaan'.

When it is my turn to be seen I am told that the bone has healed. This is as I'd expected - for the past two weeks friends have had to prevent me from cutting the damn thing off myself. I inadvertently soaked it in the shower and since then it's been cloying and stinking, my peeling skin flaking off in scales and scattering over my keyboard.

The doc tells me it's time to be free of the plaster and cuts it off. This is the moment I've been waiting for. Excitedly, like an eager young virgin, I tear at the bandage, fingers fumbling to hastily liberate my wasted little arm.

And as soon as it's free I feel like it should be back in. It's so SMALL and frail - it feels like if I lifted a tea cup it may just break off.

I gingerly uncurl my wrist from it's limp-handed position...it crunchingly opens joint by joint, reluctant to the last.

The Doc asks me to open my hand as if to receive a low five, keeping my elbow firmly tucked to my side. Oh fuckety ow. He makes the prayer position and bids me to imitate. Fucking hell.

I cannot do much with this so called hand. It hurts to lie in bed. I still cannot properly make the prayer position, and any high fives which come my may have to be received with a grimace.

It's totally fucking useless maan.

One Armed Bandit

Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da life goes on...

Apparently, I will have two arms back this time next week.

This means I'll be able to do chin ups. And use the shift button more easily. It also means I'll be added to the cleaning rota both at home and at work, instantly rendering a formerly empty 2 hours of my week replete with soap suds and wrinkles.

Easter And What It Means To Me:

Four days off.
The time to relax fully into my drunkenness instead of having to reign it in for Blue Monday.
Dancing.
The luxury of looking at the clock* to ascertain the day - not the time.
Smiles.
Daydreams.
Reading away the hours.
Wearing my most inappropriate clothing.
Experimenting with interesting narcotics.
Hunting for eggs.
Hopefully dancing on a roof.
Hopeful dancing.
Grinning from ear to ear.
Cracking a good bottle of red.
Over a heated discussions head.
Going out at 4am.
Coming home with new friends.
Rolling in the hay.
My salad day days.


*Except, inexplicably, when I least want to know the time - ie when 10 pm has rolled round again and i still haven't slept.

Sick

Oh My God.

I take it all back. Having just seen this footage of the police pushing Ian Tomlinson to the floor, I have re-evaluated what I think of the London MET.

I had previously given them the benefit of the doubt but this video makes me feel physically sick.

Bullies, massive baton wielding, frightening, gutless bullies. The police need policing - in a riot situation they think they can do no wrong and are free to terrorize innocent, peaceful people. It's terrifying that people like this officer are supposed to be the guardians of law and order.

Backlash

Well. Everyone's up in arms about the G20 police aggression. Looking at it from the inside out and the feeling is that it's old news. Already forgotten. News only lasts a day.

'What a difference a day made, 24 little hours' croons Dinah Washington.

From where I'm sitting things are a little different: I now know just how many people are with me on this - am reassured by how many faces I recognized in the Climate Camp - the place which represented my views and my person the most accurately. There is a community, a scattered community of people who are passionate about living a sustainable existence and the ones I know are young and clever and proactive.

It's heartening. I feel hearted by the G20 protests - I may be in the minority here though.

April Fools

Financial Fools Day is here.

Obama is in our city, the bankers are all in jeans. My boss doesn't want me to go to the protest but luckily I'm going anyway.

At work I have been mainly persuading people not to believe the hype and convincing them they won't get blown up, arrested, involved in a riot, attacked. The only danger for them is that their precarious status quo may just be toppled - forcing them into an embarrassing acknowledgment that Capitalism is shit. God forbid.

Going to the frontline at midday. Will send word.