Tuesday, 21 October 2014

Dorsal Springing

I had another dose of osteopathy this morning, which involved a bit of clicking and a lot of something called dorsal springing, which instantly makes me go cross-eyed and sends me into a some sort of cat-like stupor. I'm told that the "fight or flight" instinct releases endorphins which explain my reaction but I reckon I'd pay a masseur mega-bucks to do that once a week for the rest of my life. Does anyone know a masseur who specialises in dorsal springing?

I had lunch in a greasy spoon in Angel. The food arrived and I couldn't believe the size of the portion. I started sweating at the thought of eating it!

I did some work in another cafe on Upper Street, before having tea with a charming animator I'd met at Abbie's wedding. We threw a few creative ideas around in a lovely ramshackle place at the end of Camden Passage. The tea was a bit fancy for my liking, however. Who serves "China Breakfast" tea instead of "English Breakfast?" For the record, China Breakfast is a black tea, which when taken with milk, is flavourless in the extreme. Adding milk simply turned the tea a weak shade of beige. And then all I could taste was cream.

I came home and finished my arrangement for Friday's session, whilst staring out at the trees by the tube station opposite, which were being buffeted by the wind like fronds of seaweed in swirling waves. We're apparently experiencing the tale-end of an Atlantic hurricane. The wind has been light by hurricane standards, but the news informs me that the leaves (which are still green and full of life) are acting as sales and causing trees to be ripped up from their very roots, which is in turn causing mayhem. Three people in London have already been killed.

Two workmen arrived at about 5pm this evening to clear the gunk from our guttering which has been causing all the water damage in our sitting room. I was astonished that they wanted to go out on the roof in rain and such high winds. There was also a somewhat apocalyptic-looking sunset, behind a band of rain, burning the Eastern sky. But out they went, with a little wooden step ladder, knocking over a shelf as they climbed through a sky light. I retired to the sitting room, half expecting to see a man falling past the window to an almost certain death on the Archway Road below, but eventually the men emerged with a bucketload of filthy moss, and mulch and bits of masonry, claiming that the problem has almost certainly been remedied, and saying they were quite surprised that I'd not taken it upon myself to go out on roof myself! I suspect it's because I'm a big old gaybo...

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