The Journals of Everett True

Wednesday May 17

It rains. More packages arrive in the post. Paul Connolly at The Times suggests a couple of albums for review - another Maher Shalal Has Baz, begad! (I later find out he pays £75 a pop. This is good. Very good. Those bastard writers who are making a full-time living at the broadsheets. I hate them even more now than ever.) No one offers me a full-time job yet. Days start merging into hours and weeks as Charlotte continues to scourge this house of past lives around my lazy-ass feet. Downstairs already looks fine. Stephen Sweet calls again. I steadfastly refuse to listen to any of the music pouring in, instead playing Kevin Rowland and old Stax/Volt singles as I e-mail my host of admirers and friends with new details of my new start. That'll be the third in three years then.

© Everett True 2000

next entry