It’s full house here today with auntie, mark’s parents and us two. There’s dinner cooking on the oven, and enough chefs for it to be either great or terrible.

Mark’s parents are here to see us before we go off to Sweden, and I’m trying to get some peace and quiet and do some writing while the others try to get everything squared off about where they’re going to sleep tonight, and what they’ll brew for the next batch.

Mark’s dad nicked about ten pints of beer too, and put it in the car, so now there’s a pitiful little collection of bottles left in the brewing room downstairs. So people must have thought that this was a den of alcoholics from all the beer bottles that he carried out of here. “You’re under-age,” he says. “You’re not supposed to drink until you’re eighteen. Possibly thirty.” Bastard.


I’ve actually made a song. I’ve written it, and I accompany myself, and I’ve recorded it with some borrowed equipment and with Audacity. I’m going to post it up here sometime today, or possibly tomorrow. I just need to clean it up, and remove all the little errors and disharmonies and wrong notes.

I’ve been practising on my Ibanez, and I think I’m all right on the guitar now as long as I don’t do anything fancy. I can strum along chords with songs now, and I can even play simple tunes.

I should have it up this evening or tomorrow, depending on when I can fit it into my oh so busy schedule here. A schedule that today includes someone storming into the room groaning “where is X? Help me find X. Don’t just sit there.”


Mark’s mum asked me, or us, how we liked the house. I’ve not really thought much about it. I mean, we’ve lived on our own now for months, so it’s no different than before. It’s just the space that’s bigger.

I can actually miss the snug fit of the old flat sometimes, then I realise how dumb that is. Auntie has managed to rent it out, and complains that the “bint is a daft one”. To hear Auntie describe anyone as a bint, or daft, probably means that it’s the Chairwoman of the Tories or something. But at least “the bint” does pay on time, although Auntie says she misses stumbling over us.

Our ghost made a rare appearance today and even talked a bit to us. Mark’s mum tried to find out if everything was all right, with the renting and stuff. Apparently everything was fine, or our tenant didn’t want to say anything in front of us.


I am still reading Rilke, by the way. I have decided to pick up some of his poetry as well, although I try not to read poetry that is translated. Poetry is such a specialised form of writing, and is so precisely tuned with a particular language that translations always remove so much.

Translating a poem is like gutting it, and then just presenting the hollowed out thing as a real poem. But I don’t speak German, and I’m interested in Rilke. I’ll just have to try to find some version that is considered decent.