dada'ist

Sophia can sit up, lie on her tummy, pick things up, turn her head almost 360 degrees, but can't move. This is increasingly frustrating for her - reflected by a red face and constant requests (in baby talk i.e. whining) for help from the parents.
If it wasn't for the fact she says 'dadadada' alot, I'd be slightly annoyed.

positive negative

seven deadly sins appeared before me
i chose one, then thought better of it
another deep breath, another shallow silence
a new year starts with old rage

commercial pressures

Sent christmas emails to a bunch of people, including my brother and sister. Writing cards would be better, less lazy or laizes fair. Nicer for the receiver. But I only have email addresses and mobile numbers. I have no idea where people live. They have to tell me every time we get invited over.

drop and catch

There is a very clean, very overweight man in the newsagent with no windows under this building. He never touches my hand when taking or giving money.

You must drop and catch if the transaction is to be successful. The first time I moved my palm up towards the coins held daintily between his thumb and forefinger, expecting a meeting to take place. But he moved up and away, curling his mouth down at the edges impatiently. And let the coins fall this unexpected distance of four or five inches.

I blew some air out of my nose in bemusement, and of course went back the next day to sense check. Now I buy a paper from him most mornings just for the thrill of his no-contact policy. Sometimes I don't even read it.

filthy lessons

Too late.
Found out I was strange on the weekend after a dinner party with someone stranger. We understood each other. This fearful liberation of a personality disorder is kind of nice, but I'm not sure of it's value yet.
Must make sure it doesn't lead to another 5 years of detailed self-analysis on the why, when all that matters is what's next.

The past, old man, is a filthy lesson.

a friend in need

What my iPod says from train station to desk via coffee kiosk (I definitely don't press pause or take the buds out while ordering) is very important.

This is why I have dozens of playlists, trying to mould an army of ideal companions for all known physical and mental states. Some playlists have only two songs, to be rotated endlessly until we start to go transcendental.

A special few are in fact just one album with a personalised name, like 'The Bends' becomes 'walking in Dublin'. They possess a rare quality for albums these days, or people actually - a sincere, involving storyline.

This is what iPod just told me:
> Nessun Dorma, Pavarotti...through the underground tunnel and climbing stairs to monoxide heaven,
> Breakdown, Grace Jones...past a newsagent with a huge Win $33 million Lotto! sign,
> Mad World, Tears For Fears...running to make it across two main streets before the green man turns red (why am i running?),
> Little 15, Depeche Mode...waiting for a strong flat white,
> Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye, Roberta Flack...close to 6 strangers for 26 floors, alone for one.

twist and shout

I managed to get onto the escalator ahead of that nasty-piece-of-work who pushed in front of me when we were getting out of the train. Extremely, extremely satisfying.

The problem is I seem to get into at least 20 of these little races every day, and never win more than half of them. Unless I actually break into a run, which is entirely against the rules.
Given half my competitors beat me to escalators, the other side of the road, the door into or out of the building, the queue for coffee, it must be something else I'm 'average' at. It's comforting not to be below-average, but gives me indigestion.

Then ahead and looming, a perfectly well-dressed woman twisted herself around a wooden cane, throwing leg after leg desperately in front of her shaking body. Every movement shouted frustration. If you bothered to listen.

Everyone else buzzed past her, sometimes almost kicking that wooden stick. I let her go through the gate first.