Little Black Book

That explains the scarcity, and posthumously published, entries. I didn't stop writing completely but what I did write down was usually long-hand, completing my most recent moleskin in the process. In the fickle grip of a sophisticated virus, and/or plain exhausted. Despite a 'christmas holiday' there's been 3 months of hard graft and hedonistic weekends. Then of course there's the extra pressure of assuming the driving seat, the creative energy, the social buzz and the carrot and stick motivational theories of earning the daily bread.

Thought I might make it back to work today, but awoke exhausted and aching around the knees. When I eventually came to again around midday, a shitty-cold rainy day greeted me. The long weekend of essentially dry, bright winter days is long gone into the gloomy horizon. Spoke with Helen, again from the shelter of a doorway and a brolly, she's enduring a difficult time away with Charlie and her Dad, away now for the fourth night in succession.

A new camera to inspire a new creative edge, a minimal or micro-narrative aesthetic. All this stay-at-home dirge and drive fused by the frivolous but thrilling expectation of sporting glory, tonight being the night Chelsea attempt the arduous and difficult assault on the Catalan bastion of the Nou Camp.