When things are afoot, every part of one’s life seems to go awry. The temptation, and it’s not entirely unwarranted, is to hunker down in a quiet room, wrap yourself up in your best goose down, and apply wine. It may yet come to that.
And things, as they say, are most definitely afoot. It began a couple of weeks ago, when the long saga of Plashet Grove came to an end. This was my first piece of property, a huge wreck of a place which I bought in 1993, and proceeded to renovate to within an inch of its life. I installed a recording studio, acquired a cat. I had a home for the first time in years.
Boris died. I left. I began a new life. It was fabulous. Then I was diagnosed with PD, at the same time as my wife and I were undergoing an extreme amount of stress. I defy any relationship to survive – ours didn’t. By september I was living in a small room in Hove, before moving to a flat, which while not home, was homely. Then women intervened, and I moved to a friend’s flat while he was in Australia, and then to another friend’s house while he was in Senegal. Now he’s moving, and I have ten days in which to find a new home. Well, ten days in which to move.
I am lonely. I am so very, very tired.
I have an interview to write.
I have a novel to write.
I have a play to write.
I can barely write my own name.
Two days ago I discovered something. It has fucked up my planned new home. At least for a day or three. Utterly depressing.
I can’t write.
I can’t read.
I just want to sleep.
But in my own bed.
Under my own roof.
Too much to ask for, apparently.
Far, far too much.