I was going to use another Pulp lyric for this entry title tonight but for once (at last) prudence stayed my hand. The line appears in Underwear, it's a really nice line, but when it occurred to me how badly it would reflect on me (even in light of my new indiscriminate editorial policy) my mouth made a little o and I elected to do otherwise. Maybe I can use it some other time. Pulp lyrics can sometimes be too apposite.

The idea that Haiyan is down here now permanently has yet to really gel. Partly because it's been so long since she left that the idea of her living here on even a tentatively permanent basis has slowly migrated from the realm of plausibility into that of pure abstraction. Partly because it's difficult to conceive of anything in the company of which you've spent ten or twenty hours on any given year as a permanent fixture (oddly, her voice drifting in electrically from Canada does feel like a permanent fixture for that reason, and that's gone; the physical presence on the other hand remains perversely unfamiliar). Hopefully this weird sensation will subside if we actually socialise. Well, so I hope.

I have two coldsores on my nose; this evening for some reason a fit of ghastly vomiting struck me despite my stomach containing nothing to void, so I got to see what there is in my stomach when there isn't food in it. It's a quarter to one in the morning and I still want to go rollerblade, although doing so would be very imprudent. Right now still very much enjoying listening to Live Bed Show which I think sounds terribly romantic (mainly thanks to the gooey atmospheric echo) and would be a nice song to have your bridal waltz to at your wedding reception.