god

There's very little to say about today other than that King's Cross station seems to be in complete disarray. Some shenanigans are happening with the Northern line and the way you access it from ticket halls, and it's now impossible to exit the station without a ridiculously long underground walk, which deposits you in the shiny little aluminium plaza behind the station where the gas works and prostitutes used to be. When I last came to the station you could opt to exit almost directly onto the Euston Road via the old ticket hall where the terrible fire was. Fiona was at this very station earlier complaining of insanely lengthy queues for loos and taxis. As is so often the case in the UK, it would appear that money has been ploughed into the building (making everything look shiny and industrial chic) with an almost complete disregard for practicalities. Thar said, the newly refurbished station itself, with the giant plaza out front looks absolutely stunning, I just wish I hadn't been too irritated by all that walking to fully appreciate it!

In recent days I've noticed rather a lot of born again christians standing in public places, handing out magazines and pamphlets. I passed a gaggle of them wearing their sensible shoes and tweedy skirts at Victoria yesterday and they were working King's Cross earlier on like dead-eyed, modern-day whores. Whores, of course, with less value to society. It is, in my view, a cynical and deeply transparent act: the Muslims have started to misbehave, so the Christians go on a recruitment drive, desperately hoping for Armageddon whilst they're on earth so they can watch people suffering. They refuse to engage in plans to save this planet, because its very destruction is in their interest. They attempt to pick off the vulnerable; the easy prey, the mentally ill or those who have been shat on by society. It's dull beyond words - and a little dangerous. Stick them all on an island and force them to function like human beings. It'll be like Lord of the bloody Flies!

I worked all day on the finer details of the first part of my composition for the Fleet Singers. I'm going through the piece with a fine-tooth comb, stripping back some harmonies, and bringing others into focus. It's a time-consuming process, but one which I enjoy thoroughly. It's where mathematics and logic come to the fore. The raw, creative, emotional splurging is done and dusted on this project.

I drove to the gym earlier, and managed to get hemmed in by several cars in the car park. It was one of those ridiculous scenarios when I literally had to extract myself an inch at a time. I was there for at least ten minutes, my face flushing bright red when ever anyone passed and stared. By the time I freed myself I was shaking like a tragic leaf. Experiencing mayhem in the process of parking is one of the most emasculating things known to man!

I've run out of oats, so can't treat myself to a pot of porridge in front of the telly tonight. Does anyone remember the story about the little girl who wished for porridge and her wish came true and the porridge kept pouring out of the pot? "Stop little pot, stop!" She yelled as the porridge poured into the village and started drowning little old ladies. I was never sure what the moral of that particular story was. I mean, wishing for food, particularly a super-food like porridge strikes me as a very sensible thing to do if you're hungry and can't afford any oats. Porridge is more filling than goji berries. She wasn't wishing for money, or cocaine or beef burgers.

I suspect the moral of that particular story was that one that says poor people shouldn't have ideas above their station. If god wants you to die of hunger, it would be rude to disobey him. I'm pretty sure, however, that if there IS a god, that he wouldn't operate like that. I don't think he'd much want his flock to stand outside train stations handing out magazines either.