I don't give a fuck - zombie (need I say more?)

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Two days at Surrey university

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 For those of you who don't know, I've just registered as a student at Surrey University. It is based in Guildford which means it's not on the other side of the planet from Wantage! You just need to take the Oxford Bus Company X35 or X36 and go into Beauty (ie the countryside surrounding where I live) then arrive in Didcot. Take a train to Reading and change there. So yes really, not far! I plan to go there about once per month. It was only my second day of studies yesterday but I was given the chance to read some of my poems, so I said yes of course! I also heard the other students' work which was great. During the day, there was the Surrey New Writers Festival on campus and my mind (and bank account...) got blown away! I do admit that apart from Amy Key I didn't know anyone. Wow... came back home, around midnight, my bag full of books and I'm now trying to process all the fantastic comments I heard yesterday. It was the best literary festival I went to becau...
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In memoriam Chris Weitz (1956-2024)

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  Glimpses of Chris working under the sun Digging a hole because that was fun A pond? No. It became a swimming pool And there were jumps into the cool   of OX4 parties his young Werther look with sorrow sometimes, sometimes not his chiselled jaws and square glasses and did he wear a wig once? Goethe am Oxford   The cheekiness of Chris… I remember us two gazing metaphorically in front of a neon he had just planted into the soil at an exhibition in the Botanic gardens and we quoted Derrida and Bourdieu yeah right or one of them anyway while the intelligentsia gathered near us to gasp and discuss this piece of ….    shit I forgot what I wanted to say, oh yeah, that’s it The seriousness of Chris always ordering The same chicken tikka dish at Dosa Till last time I saw him, it was different then,  A faraway look, and no meat
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Mrs Dalloway, or Ignorance is Bliss

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I used to go to work early, and even then, I was not ready. So I would pop in Taylor's on St Giles and get an espresso. Then, I would go to my place – I wish I'd say my favourite place but it's a graveyard and I'm no Goth – under that fig tree, just outside the graveyard, against the small wall. I would enjoy my strong coffee with a cigarette, the taste of each other mingling nicely together and progressively waking me up. And almost every morning, by the dot of 8 am, Mrs Dalloway would appear. I did call her Mrs Dalloway because she would walk fast, as if she'd "get the flowers" herself, like in the begining of that novel by Virginia Woolf. And yes, immanquablement, invariablement, Mrs Dalloway would appear ; a long, tall woman with fair hair, vaguely looking like a prettier Virginia Woolf with a rucksack on her back, wearing a shirt but with sport shoes, à la New Yorkaise. And yes of course, I had to quote an English author, perhaps the most En...
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