One out of six isn't bad... After many years of repelling the corporate dollar I've finally succumbed and sold out for the corporate cent, a meagre pension, a perks account (discount at Nandos) and a glass office. It truly is the end of days. Don't worry they'll find me out soon enough and I'll be back on the road again. Sub-letting a room from the delightful Ms Cheeseman a mere Special- Brew-can-throw-away from The Holloway Road and flathunting like a ... flathunter. Most of the agencies seem to be manned by small pretty Eastern European girls - at least I think they were estate agents - who patiently stand there whilst I enunciate "I don't want to sleep in my kitchen". In my head I sound like a level-headed business woman who knows what she wants - the reality - ranting wild-eyed Scottish nutter talking about sleeping with pots and pans. Has the circus left town? There seems to be a glut of rooms available for very, very, very, small people.
Reading: Last Night In Twisted River (John Irving)
Listening: Postcards From A Young Man (Manic Street Preachers)
Watching: my sanity slowly unravel
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