I don't know what I'm doing

I don't know what I'm doing. 

I'm looking out the window and its raining again. 

No e-mails. 

Staring. 

It's September now. September. 

I'm eating a packet of Drumstick Squashies washed down with black coffee in a Wizard of Oz mug.

Could be worse. 

A friend has sent me notes on a short story. They point out the story's weaknesses, the passive language and my strangulated prose and grammatical sloppiness. He does it kindly and precisely. It's exactly what I need and exactly what I should already know. I type in his amendments and agree with all but one of them. I'm lucky to have him. 

"I 'ate you Ennui 'Iggins."

The bloke next door is still drilling. He hammers or drills almost every day, especially when it's raining and he's stuck in the house. Maybe I should take up drilling things too. His wife works in the day and each night she must open the door to choke on sawdust, then wade through the wood-chip carpet like it was an old fashioned saloon. There's probably a spittoon in the corner of the living room. Every day he drills away like an unlicensed dentist. It gets in your head. This is how they mangled Catherine Deneuve in Repulsion - I'll be walking down corridors of flailing arms next or being leered at by Mike Pratt. 

More up to date references. My material is exclusive. 

I don't know what I'm doing. 

I'm trying to negotiate a contract. It's the vaguest contract ever. I may end up having to write the contract myself. And why not? There's a look of Rumpole of the Bailey about me these days - though my eyes still travel in broadly the same direction. I notice the people who are looking to support my podcast have taken my face off the branding. Is this a demographic tweak, I wonder? They have to find out some time, guys. My face used to be an asset. Now its a dented can on the odds 'n' sods shelf.  

Still looking out the window.

Christ. 

Its stopped raining. I don't trust it. The coffee's getting cold but I don't mind. The older I am the more sensitive to heat I've become. Is this common? Is this a thing on its own or is it symptomatic of some further reaching malaise? I've a slight sore throat - is it Covid? I've spoken to one other person in six months. It probably isn't. 

I'm supposed to do some singing. My colleague has sent me a CD (I know!) in the post of the latest mixes of the songs we've been writing together and they're very good, bar the singing. I'll have to redo most of them for various reasons, but I'm not in good voice. And besides there's a man drilling next to my head every day. I'm surprised I manage to get the podcasts finished. I expect eventually I'll have to confront him but I'm not very good at confrontation: I go from placid to snarling fury in the winking of an eye. It doesn't do me any good as I don't back it up with manly violence. Its like Bruce Banner rocking the Hulk's shtick without bothering to change: just incoherent shouting, ragged shirtsleeves, saliva and sudden crushing embarrassment. So I'm putting it off until I buy an angry dog. 

Facebook has elected to send me lots of Metallica features in my timeline. I'm confused by this. I don't like Metallica. I don't know why they're called Metallica for one thing. At least Megadeth was a thing*. I'm not a particular fan of metal generally, but this is very specifically Metallica based product positioning. Should I like Metallica? I'm a white middle-aged man who wears a lot of black. Does that make me fodder for the Metallica machine? Facebook can't know I wear a lot of black, can it? It is slimming. Maybe they took a wild stab in the dark, which does sound quite metal. For the record I only know one Metallica song - the Wee Willie Winky one. That's not great penetration. Still, even I know that Lars Ulrich is a shit drummer. And his tennis game has gone down hill. 

Listening to Kate Bush's "Aeriel". There's a song on it call "Washing Machine". Is there a joke there? 

I don't know what I'm doing.

Its started raining again. I've finished the Drumstick Squashies and the coffee now. I'm starting a diet on Monday. When I finally emerge blinking into the sunlight on the day Covid is killed, I want to be able to fit through the front door. I don't need the expense of removing a wall. And crane hire is so fiddly. 

The rain has stopped again. It has brightened. I trust it to hold off for the twenty minutes it will take to get to the shops and back. I'm feeling lucky, punk. 

I was wrong to feel lucky. 

The deluge started as soon as I left the shop. By the time I'd reached Super Value I was as wet as I was ever going to be. I was also half blind in my glasses and wading through small, quick streams as the drains had flooded. The house was still ten minutes away. A man walked towards me, his hair plastered to his scalp and his t-shirt horribly see-through. He was pushing a toddler in a buggy. As we passed he looked at me and said "Hey mate, you wanna get an umbrella!" "You're wetter than I am," I squeak, "AND you've got a baby!" We went our separate ways, not friends. 

I make it home. I have bought a Co Op own brand Greek style yogurt. I get undressed in the kitchen and Susan brings me a towel and a change of clothes. She doesn't laugh. Which, under the circumstances, is practically superhuman. 

I don't know what I'm doing. 

I've been trying to track down the films of Mol Smith. He's a maverick English film director and a very strange man. They used to have two of his films - "Tainted Love" and "Dark Matter" - on Amazon Prime, but "Dark Matter" has gone now. "Tainted Love" is a story of demons, gypsies and - spoiler - incestuous lesbian twins. They actually don't know they're twins until the end of the film but it doesn't much put them off. I'm always amazed when films - any films - get made. But a film like this: microscopic budget, furniture-like acting, a garbled, bombastic script with a huge concept and CGI that looks like the Cottingley fairies, well, its either a miracle or the result of obsession. I'm glad Mol makes his strange films. It gives him something to do - otherwise he might just spend the day drilling and hammering lumps out of his house.   

There are a lot of birds on the roof opposite. There are usually a few but today there are - hang on - 13. I'm not suggesting there's a cannabis farm at the end of my garden, of course. Could be one of those loft saunas you read about in the Sunday supplements. Yeah, loft saunas - birds love 'em. Loft saunas. 

I don't know what I'm doing. 

*Actually I'm thinking of Killdozer, here. Megadeth is an even shittier name than Metallica.