Dhaling

Eighty-three is a prime number. So is twenty-three. Nineteen hundred and eighty-three is not prime, being thrice six hundred and sixty-one, a pinch shy of triple evil, and more meaningful for it. 'Eighty-three plus twenty-three equals twenty-o-six (or, as it is put in Ersatz Nation, where we are now). The PM is making a last effort to have people say anything good about him in a hundred years' time. I hope he puts himself physically in the middle of a gunfight, and is ignored.

My flirtation with being an expert in Budapest was a fine meeting, I learned a lot and contributed thoughts here and there. It will hopefully lead to some more consultancy work, since people seem generally happy with me (I don't know what it takes to make people happy. I gave up trying to work it out). Also established a reputation for cow-stomachs, managing three deep-fried slabs of calf-calf jelly and a colleague's duck ("You've eaten so less it could still fly"). Made friends with a youth policy expert well into his fifties but distinctly still youthful. One of the world's few successful moustaches.

This is to say, I won't be back in England any time soon. Maybe at the end of March, maybe not. I am missing Christmases this year, but today is Chrismas, which is more me. My first Chrismas morning in a dwelling all on my own. Peaceful, nobody to urge me not to be an hour late for work. I've just noticed that the Lewisham Council logo is encouraging us to make a citizens' monarchy, aka a republic. Have I recommended His Dark Materials recently? Ah, to fall in love across the religious divide. Presently I am reading On Beauty, and am very satisfied. This lady has a fine mind, though I am slightly frustrated, and it's probably my fault, at the feeling that I am definitely being told a story. I don't feel transported out of my position as reader, which happens occasionally.

Thanks to the kind gift of a couple of Walter Mosley's books, I will be kept busy on my twelve-hour coach ride to Istanbul at new year, having fallen irreparably out with the woman taking me in for quinzejours having never met me. An argument over the appropriate place of violent fantasy in political motivation. The pitched battles of division-conquered fools played out in the utopic setting of the Barbican, watched by those rousing their respective rabbles, who share champagne on the thirty-ninth floor - and what a view that is. (Lesson learned: access requires humble confidence.) Had I the patience, I would offer photos. I may bring myself around, after this evening's festivities. This blogue, you see, has become a symbol of my inability to commit; the circle has its arbitrary starting point at my guilt at not giving you enough, and its end where I shy away and dissociate myself from your disappointment. The infinite sides in between are where I can't tickle you into talking.

I'm almost done at Unifem - three more days. Eesh, over so quickly. I am assured that Resident Man is more than enough of a role to keep me here. A TOR is being worked out now, to include flattery, arse-pinching, heavy lifting and being the butt of hairline jokes. Ah, We, the follicles. Another year, another degree or two of brow. I only say these things because they don't matter at all. Thank you for happy wishes, where they have come, and know that despite being a Master of Nothing, I at least have a spoon. A shiny, pink-bowed spoon. To combine themes, someone at UNIFEM clearly got me down to a tee(-shirt) - I have, as well as wine and flowers, a set of beautiful papers and some eenteresting fabric paints. At last, all those t-shirts I always wanted to make, made in all the spare time my poor, unemployed self is going to have. There are worse plces to be unemployed, but I'd still prefer work. Will keep you posted.


This is really good,

he said, raising his fork,

I don't want it to stop


I don't of course know who you are, but if you think I might miss you, I probably do. Enjoy your upcoming moments out of the slavish lifestyle to which we have become accustomed, your crumbs beneath the table of the bureaucratic time imperative, capitalist, worthy, productive, fulfilling or other. Finding ways to fill the days we have had thrust upon us - I recommend feasting and walks in the cold.

Yours reborn again,

Chris