Rant

I was shocked if not surprised at the death of Mahoney. I learned about it last week. The last time I saw him, he didn't look good although he was always too closely resembling (in his own words) either a "young Peter Lorre or an old Orson Welles". One thing he had was a hand that was perfect for holding a glass of beer no matter what size. We used to drink together when we were young and have the most confounding of conversations which always made sense to us but were threatening/infuriating/hilarious to others. I dug his massive vocabulary and he dug mine. We didn't get a chance to use them as much as we would have liked, so when we got together, we jazzed it up. We often talked of baked otters and black out shades and redundant ethnic quips. I've been trying for the last couple of days to write something about Mahoney when I came to inspiration point and tried to imagine the kind of conversation/ observation/dissertationwe would have shared on the available topic had we had another chance to kick it around and chop it up. I'm gonna name this "piece" Mahoney's Office after him and bid my bud adieu.

New outbreaks occur, In Leicester and Oldham. Manchester and Glasgow return towards lockdown, Now Leeds is at risk, and Birmingham again! Is there...

We were at a restaurant awhile back. I was impressed as I always am by the politeness of our waiter. I started wondering what it would be like if that "politeness" were extended in an area of exceedingly less ambience. I recalled a scene from Mary Shelley's Frankenstein when Victor finds himself in the presence of a magistrate in Ireland. From that inspiration point on, the best cell began to write itself

Calban journeys across the City to a semi dark area, in need of economic regeneration. Unable to find female companionship he has come here searching for other ways forward. This is part of my 'Marta City and Gallanol In The Modern Age' novel, set in a futuristic period, in a world quite similar to our own.