Journal 12th Oct

12th October

Today I had an audio with the client. He stood me up. Half an hour later he called. He'll agree the communications tomorrow. He's SO busy. He asked what will I be doing after the 29th when the work goes to South Africa. I said I'm going into hospital and hope to just go to projects when I come back. Can I keep my accounts and kit live? Keep the accounts but he'd like my laptop as he's short of kit.

I know I asked. I know it was me who started it. But it floored me. Handing my kit back. Having to move all my stuff of it. Like I was already dead. That's it isn't it. No laptop, don't exist.
I have my own gorgeous laptop anyway.

I still think it was insensitive.
Prick.

Speaking of which, in the admissions letter, I was very pleased to read that six weeks after the operation I could have sex. Excellent private health care, I thought, as long as it's not those Liverpudlians from Speed Dating.

I was reminded of that old joke,
'Doctor, will I be able to play the violin after the operation?'
'Of course.'
'Good, coz I couldn't play it before.'

The freedom to shag with impunity, pregnancy free. Well. Whole new ball game.
Pun intended.
I feel a promiscuous Kali coming in the Spring.
Pun intended.

2006 will be my year. Adds up to 8 you see. I claim it.

Talk about reasons to live!
That'll help with the recovery timescales.

Just need to move to London and claim my bloke now.

Jingle jingle.

Recently, Barefoot Doctor was being wakened by Spanish youths on mopeds congregating just below his Spanish dream home. Wrecking his sleep and general peace. Stopping his happiness. Blocking his ecstasy.
He asked the Universe, help.
Nothing seemed to come.
Except more mopeds and louder noise.
For a while he pondered the moral quandaries of stink bombing them.
Then it came to him.
Sell up.
The release of it was over whelming to read. The Urika of it.

Why can I not think of any stories. Have I lost my creativity? Why am I wasting time obsessing about email and email writing?

I have an urge to stop journaling.
As a discipline.
Get back to real writing. Weave my energy that way.

What's the point of this blogging anyway, other than the illusion of release? Get it out of my head and into the ether? Bogging as therapy. Just so much mental moped.

I have an urge to stop journaling.

Do some real writing instead.