LSD

I had intended to have an early night last night. I had also intended to go to Buddhism, but I did neither. I didn’t go to Buddhism because I decided that meditating at home would be more propitious – I have so many issues racing through my head at the moment that I needed some time to reflect on what it is I want; where it is I’m going etc. At the moment I’m going nowhere, and I need to spank myself out of this awful lethargy that I’ve somehow skidded into.

So, after a session of introspection (navel-gazing, some might call it) I felt strangely uplifted yesterday evening. I still have to deal with the issue of my expenditure far outstripping my income (a perennial problem) but I felt that in one way or another - in this respect at least - all will be resolved. In the words of a fellow blogger, the universe (screaming or otherwise) will provide the required rejoinder. All will be well.

Perhaps ill-advisedly, this feeling of self-benevolence prompted me to abandon my apartment and to seek solace in the fleshpots of Broad Street. Being a Wednesday, I hardly expected to see many people about but lo, the usual gang of reprobates was roaming the streets and before long I had been tempted into imbibing rather more than the single pint I had promised myself. I ended up in Edin’s where the music and ambience is so sophisticated, so continental, that it’s hard for any sane man to escape. I was trying to explain this phenomenon to the people I was with, none of whom was born in this wretched country and so none of whom can really appreciate what a remarkable place Edin’s is. When I were a lad, you just didn’t get late night places as cool as this. Yes, I know they were available sur le continent, but I spent my youth in the Midlands where all we had were stinking, yellow-walled pubs that closed at 10:30 p.m. and where the highlight of the evening was the arrival of the man selling cockles and mussels.

In a reminiscent mood, I then led on to an explanation about the old currency of this bedraggled country: Pounds, Shillings and Pence (or £.s.d as we knew it in those days). My first ever pint in a pub as a teenager cost me 1s 11d, which converts to 9½ pence in decimal currency. Hardly seems possible now.

At the risk of turning into a maudlin old dog, I decided to make my way home. The evening had been quite dignified; there had been no debauchery. Luckily, dawn’s rosy fingers hadn’t quite yet tickled the night sky and I was able to sink into my bed in time to catch enough sleep to make this new morning possible. I am awake, and I am listening to the universe. So far, I don’t hear any screaming.

Remind me to tell you about my hair going grey overnight. Yes, it happened to me – my hairdresser was very shocked to discover this the other day. Me too - quite scary, I can tell you. I now look like George Clooney (if only).