My bedroom: Health Hazard

The best news I have is that my very good friend Chris just called and told me that he got the job as a reporter for the Financial Times to start in January. Which is brilliant. I am very proud of him.

I met up with another journalistically-inclined friend last night, Mark. We had a few drinks in the Jon Snow pub in Soho and caught up as much as it is possible to do in the space of an hour and a half. It was great to see him. He lives in Edinburgh now, which is far away from my house.

I was thinking about Edinburgh today and suddenly thought of something. I would like to do a gig at the Edinburgh Festival this summer. Just one or perhaps two gigs in some bars or venues or something. I need to a) find somewhere to perform and b) decide how to accompany myself. I am starting to learn the guitar in the interests of having more autonomy as a singer, but I doubt I'll be anywhere near good enough by August. I'm not ruling it out. The other option would be to ask someone to come with me. Who, though? Any offers? If anyone has any advice to impart I would appreciate it.

Last night I was walking from one side of my room to the other, perhaps to see whether it looked tider from a different angle, and I trod on a drawing pin. I swore loudly but, because I am brave, did not cry like a girl. I pulled the (fuckingmotherfucker) drawing pin out of my innocent right foot and put it on the chest of drawers where I could keep an eye on it.

This morning I was walking from the shower to my room, and as I walked into my room I started to think about how it was quite lucky that I didn't tread down harder onto the drawing pin. I thought laughingly (is that possible?) about my silliness in leaving a drawing pin on the floor. Suddenly I felt a roaring pain in my left foot and knew, with what was, by this point, tired resignation, that I had cunningly managed to locate another drawing pin and tread on it, but this time heavily enough to drive it right into my foot, up to the flat bit. There was blood and more swearing, in a refined and elegant manner, of course.

Fucking mouse, I thought to myself as I pulled the pin out with all my might. He may have won this one, but I will show him. Tonight I plan on digging a small pit in the kitchen floor which I will line with spikes and then cover with twigs and bracken. The little bastard must pay.

My feet are sore.

My friend Lily the tassle twirling burlesque lady is doing a gig tomorrow night at the Clapham Grand, and I think she might be coming to stay at my flat after. I am planning to go along, provided my own gig finishes in time.

I haven't heard back from the editor of the paper I wrote so vehemently to yesterday. I think perhaps he/she is scared of me because I am tattooed and therefore a bit off the rails.

I have to go an bathe my feet in disinfectant and create elaborate and cunning ruses by which to wreak revenge on the Evil Mouse of Clapham. I bear grudges. Rodents take heed.