330: black shirt, black coffee, blue sky, black sky

Wow – it's Monday morning and I'm wide awake, fully slept, sitting at my desk, getting some jolly writing done before I have to get ready for work. I start at 12.30 leaving plenty of time to get ready leisurely and walk to work in my black trousers and shirt in the sweaty sun. My work uniform is just all black, which is fine by me ; it's almost as though it is intended to make one feel good about oneself, as opposed to most retail uniforms (e.g. The garish crap they stick McDonald's workers in).

There was a fire drill at work the other day which resulted in us all having to down tools and head to the nearest escape. Hundreds of black-shirted workers stood around in Manchester's Piccadilly Gardens. I attempted to mentally write something about it while I waited to go back in. The best I could come up with was the following: I haven't seen so many blackshirts in Manchester since the last time those cocksuckers at the EDL held one of their idiot parades. Not too bad, is it? Yeah, I know it's shit, but ho-hum.

Now it's Monday afternoon and I'm desperate for a cup of tea and can barely hold my weary head up. Fuck tea ; I live with a hardcore coffee drinker so I sat the moka percolator pot on the hob and now have thick gloopy hot caffeine in a cup. And hot dang is it delicious. A storm is coming; the blue sky has passed and heavy grey hangs low below us : high above us – rain comes sweeping in prepping the ground for the storm to come. The heatwave sneaked in for a short time – I expect it will continue tomorrow – the moth on the window senses the forthcoming deluge, and panics against the glass. Anyway, where was I - ~am I, where am I? Today started with such promise. The blog was almost about something, but now who knows what I'm going on about.

I have fixed up the tiny little spare room in this weird shaped flat. The long rectangle has become half tv/living room (with the amazing ability to morph into the most cramped bedroom this side of Tokyo) and half office/library. I have to climb over the futon to get into my little study space and in here I am completely surrounded by my books and boxes full of paper ephemera – it's my comfortable little nest from where I can squark and eat the worms vomited into my mouth by the large feathered one.

The window is perfectly placed to gaze out of – all whistful and arty like, as though I think I'm one of those romantic poet types or a professional philosopher looking at the world and cautiously exclaiming why? It perfectly reflects the TV behind me which is currently showing the third or fourth Buffy of the night. It's pretty destracting, hence my lack of focus.

Caspar David Friedrich, Wanderer above the Sea of Fog,1818