Weeknotes S06E11: same same, but different

I am writing to you with the sounds of trains close by. I am writing from my old desk and my old laptop, seated comfortably in my old chair.

But the trains are different, and the view is different, and I am now the proud owner of several thousand pounds of debt.

And this view.

We’re all going through weird change at the moment. We don’t know when the current restrictions will be lifted, and we wonder if the world we’ll go back to will be the same. Moving at the same time – concurrently – was a good idea, because at the very least I can’t further upset my current rhythms and I didn’t have to worry about the absurdly draconian two-hour window for use of the lift that my new flat’s management company enforced.

I am faced once again with the agony of freedom, of course: where should I put things? What should I buy? Where should I hang pictures, and what should those pictures be of?

How do I decorate the interior?

Why on earth did I move into a flat with the most awkwardly shaped windows at a time when, rightly, nobody is willing to come out and measure it and tell me what a pain it is?

That last one’s less of a “freedom is agony” thing and more of a…realisation that the good sides of moving in a pandemic come with downsides too.

Oh, and the flat’s apparently been built for giants so if anyone’s got a spare grand or so and fancies getting me a moving-in present, apparently someone’s designed and built a solution to my hashtag short person problems.

If you haven’t got that much spare cash, get me some brownies and we’ll call it even.


I’ve started listening to a podcast called My Dad Wrote A Porno. The porno in question is, and I can’t understate this, absolutely horrific. It’s written by a man apparently bereft of even a basic understanding of human anatomy, sexual desire, and the syntax of the English language.

It’s being read and critiqued by three friends, one of whom is the author’s son – and so the text, which would be retch-inducing at even the best of times, is compounded by their knowledge of the author. Can you separate art from artist? Can you call this art?

In both cases, the answer is apparently no.

Retch is a horrible word, but there is a lovely Doric term that is adjacent and which I much prefer, which is that it gives me the boke.

However: the commentary is fantastic, and the growing disbelief on the part of these three that this text is genuinely published, featuring as it does so many sentences that border on the surreal. My favourite so far is one that mixes tragedy with a level of specificity rarely seen in erotic literature[1] and compares a woman’s nipples to

the three-inch rivets which had held the hull of the fateful Titanic together

Rocky Flintstone, Belinda Blinked

Listen to it, but don’t listen to it while you need to focus on anything like drinking liquid unless you’ve someone nearby to pat you roughly on the back.


[1]I’ve heard

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