It never rains...

And so to the middle season of the year, whatever it's called. I don't want to jinx it like last year (meteorological predictions having nothing to do with complex air pressure over the Pacific and everything to do with whether I say certain words or not) so I won't say the actual word. But we all know what it is. And it's traditionally the busiest time of the year for tour guides, what with all the tourists wandering around with money to spend and ignorance to combat. I'm doing my bit, more or less. And for the sake of the Clerkenwell and Islington Guides, and my part-time employers the Harlequin, (and hopefully my bank balance) I'm putting on a little peripatetic event followed by Pimms and lemonade.

There are always downsides a tie-in with hospitality providers, but the sticky issue of being beholden to the landlords is only the case if one runs regular tours, and is taking some kind of kickback. It's not professional, and it's not worth it.

It's actually quite a good thing that something else has potentially turned up. The temptation when planning a tour is always to spend far too much time on research into obscure side-issues and forget to concentrate on the really important things, the presentation, and remembering what's important. One more or less factoid found after three hours is not going to make or break it. Failing to engage the imagination of the audience, on the other hand, is a killer...

Plans have been mooted for a database index of facts to save having to check the same books over and over, but that depends to an extent on the willingness of Miss B, currently sleeping off what might generously be called overindulgence, having finished her degree, bar the shouting - literally, in this case, as she still has to take a viva for her project. It shouldn't be a problem, as long as she doesn't start arguing with the examiner...

Six and Out

six hours of walking, and i'm officially knackered, perhaps even suffering from heat exhaustion. still, it's better than working for a living, and i made 35 people happy today which has to be good for the general stock of humanity. Two tours through the backstreets of the City to see some old churches doesn't sound that inviting, not on a beautiful, sitting in Finsbury Circus, drinking Pimms and watching the world (or at least its female contingent) go by sort of a day, but I'm glad I did it. Quite how I'm going to do it again tomorrow when i can barely feel my legs is another matter...

extra points if anyone knows where this photo was taken...

surely not

Every way I've looked at it, I can't escape the impression that the angel is projectile vomiting. Did the sculptor not see it? Can I really talk about the high-relief quoins and neo-classical pastiche in dispassionate tones when all I can see is a cherub insouciantly yakking up a bunch of flowers?

you do, you don't

Just to clarify. I work in the City. Which is not the same as working in the city. There may be other cities that are called the City, but I don't know about them. In this instance, the City referred to is London. London is not, as it is popularly imagined to be, synonymous with the West End. The Queen does not live in London, Oxford Street is not in London, Soho, Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, the Eye, Nelson's Column and Hyde Park. None of these are in London. The sprawling suburbs aren't in London, nor are the run-down estates, the corner shops; London is an ancient and quite small city on the north bank of the river Thames, built by the Romans, possibly on a pre-Roman settlement, and inhabited almost continually since about 60 AD, except for a couple of hundred years when it was probably deserted just after the Roman Empire fell. I don't know why I feel the need to mention this.

right now, time for water and listening to a dead man's voice

it's wrong, but it's interesting in a way. i've been studying french with the Michel Thomas CD course, acquired through certain unnamed contacts at the cost of a return tube fare to Oxford Circus (£3.50 ish). which is not bad. still, he is dead now, and that freaks me out. the fact that i'm listening to, and worse interacting with a being that no longer inhabits this, or indeed any physical dimension, is disturbing. what else can i tell you? i did actually tear a door off its hinges today. less satisfying than you'd think. once again subject to the blood sugar demon, which ruined my relationship for about five hours, after which something clicked, we both realised we were going mad for no reason at all, and we got the bus down to Dalston for a really good meal. i'll probably need another one later. if i'm destined to stay up late, i may as well make myself useful.

this is just really really annoying me. i know i should just grit my teeth and wait for him to leave, but the fact is, he's my only link to what this house originally was, and he's so unreliable that i'll probably never see him again. which would be shit. then again, at least it means i won't have to deal with his inability to wash up. let me clarify that- it is both an inability and an incompetence. on the rare occasions that he does actually do it, he actually doesn't do it. so what was dry and dirty, is now wet and dirty. and when it dries, i put it back in the bowl. it's passive aggressive, it's childish, and because he doesn't know it's still his, because his actions have severed the implicit link between washing up as a symbol, and washing up as an accomplished activity involving the transformation of crockery from a state of dirt to one of cleanliness, it isn't as if it will achieve anything, given that he just can't do it. BUT IT MAKES ME SO MAD! grrrr.

other than everything, i'm fine

having tried for far too long to live with other people, i realised there's no point. it's awful to have to admit the truth, but in a way it's a relief. hell really is other people. so, short of becoming a serial killer, and that would just be too much effort, and would get dull in the end- I'm going to become an anchorite, a hermit, a recluse. not entirely, just in any meaningful way. the world, such as it is, such is my inability and impotence when it comes to effecting anything other than affectation, can go suck its own bumhole. it probably already does. and what difference will this grand gesture of non-involvement make? what will this admission of defeat accomplish? aside from having nobody else to moan at or clean up after, probably not a lot. i'd give it a week, and i'll be accosting complete strangers just to get some kind of feedback. not that this is a serious proposition. that would involve being serious. please.

so if it's here, where is it?

yes. here is the payoff. cd 4 of the michel thomas advanced french CD, by which time i can use 19 tenses in another language. 19!that's more than i thought existed in english. it's terrifying really. because of this course i am in the unique state of inverted communication skill, where i can actually say more than i can hear. i'll have to practise listening to people in order that my ears can catch up with my mouth. which, yes, okay, will require my not being alone all the time. i'll just have to move to france. quelle domage. or is it dommage?