I cannot say that I don’t like it – 24th January 1994

Bummed around the hollow house.  A box inside other boxes.

From that box to cardboard box packed up my belongings in anticipation of our move.  The anticipation has already brought beaming teethy smiles to our weekly work-worn faces.  Here starts the weekend of the rest of our life.  For some time, anyway.

Tripped the fantastic freeway, not before Bronwyn had seven panic attacks trapped by the constricts of time.  I strummed the guitar quietly but could not temper her whirlwind.  Arrived in Southampton exactly on time!

Had a little beer before hot-footing it to the bus stop.  Fifty-nine times I wanted to step off the bus to relieve myself behind some dirty shop, down some dangerous back alley.  Held off and dashed to the pub toilets.

Boogied away with friends and beers, laughed and laughed and laughed and wound up broke.

One food stop later and emotions were running high, much discussion that I no longer recall.  One taxi journey later and emotions ran high in our little friend Rob.  Beers turned to tears and with a little advice from my beautiful baby I shut the fuck up. The tears dried up with the beers and sleep met the agenda.

Up early to a dry ugly mouth, soon satisfied with cups of hot coffee waitered by Dave.  Johnny played DJ and we tapped our toes to Superchunk, Rocket from the Crypt and Leatherface.  Johnny found his air guitar and occasionally hit the right notes.

Broni, Rob and I discussed the booklet in more depth and things should be together soon.  Rob’s done an excellent job so far.

Much talk about Mr Cynical (now self-censored!) and going to London to check out the Natural History Museum and the Boredoms in Feb.

Put rubber to road and popped into Chrissy’s, dropping in a beautiful picture of her and Steve from Corfu.  Many children ran the house.  We all left – them to their Gran’s, us to our home and the quest for food!

Supposed to hit the flicks at four with smiling Kerry but plans changed and garlic bread and sparkling wine became more wanting.  Me and baby chatted for well over an hour in that dim dingy living room that we’ll be leaving behind.

Pete, Kathryn, Steve and Rebecca got sporting and went ice skating.  I got mushy and read Kerouac to my baby until she couldn’t concentrate on his meandering trails of sentences.  I felt romantic and poetic as I hope the prose relays.

The guys came back from their adventures – Steve and Pete both claiming to be ‘the best!’  I hit the great outdoors and run the grimy streets for Haagen-Daaz – well worth the effort – many thoughts came to me and boy, am I glad to be alive (with the intention of living life to the full).  Rob lent us a CD of Phillip Glass with Allen Ginsberg readings – it’s beautiful.  Another one with a way with words.  I love all that poetic stuff and I love that about me.

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