April of this year. And Pilar Donoso.

Sorry, I'm still not ready to post again but if you want a laugh, have a browse through the videos I posted in April of this year. There are some stonkingly funny ones.

Why don't I feel the urge to write at the moment? Because I'm neither angry or emotional enough. The former brings on my eczema, the latter is induced by excess, so it's verily a no-can-do at the moment, even though there is a subject I'd like to share with these virtual pages. No wonder professional authors are basket cases and prone to premature death, like Pilar Donoso. Born in Madrid in 1967, she died this week in Santiago de Chile, leaving behind three children, one of whom found her. The most touching part of her testimony was the feeling that she almost expected and understood why her mother had ended her life so early, as if she'd been waiting to become an orphan for a good number of years.

While I'm riffing on writing, here's a bit of news: my brother has been shortlisted for the Montreal International Poetry Prize. We all love organising words on a page in our family, though my dear bro is the best, and certainly a lot better than many who do it professionally. If he wins, I'll let you know, though you probably won't give a shit, and that's OK, too.

So whip your pens out and do it yourselves, just like this delightful lady below.

Strange...

...the less I write, the more visitors I seem to get. That's a good business strategy in anyone's book. I'll get back to my old stream of verbal diarrhoea fairly soon; haven't felt particularly 'creative' these past few weeks.

 

Calming Down

Our new neighbours are calming down. It has something to do with the fact I shouted at them last night: "Close your window; some people are trying to sleep, here". There are actually two men, a woman and two dogs in 30 square metres. Only the dogs are not alcoholics. They're quiet, too, so are basically more civilised than their 'masters'. All the other owners are putting a letter together to send to the owner, much good as it'll do in this country which protects low-lifers at the expense of ordinary people.

Just let me go and live in a house in the middle of nowhere. People stink.

More Pondlife.

Bizarre, sociopathic neighbours are not the exclusive preserve of the studio above our bedrooms. We now have a somewhat antisocial creature plus his wife/girlfriend/moll as well as a large Alsatian who have taken up residence in the upper flat opposite our front door. This flat has, until now, always housed diligent, quiet female law students and was the few score square metres in the building which were, as far as tenant quality goes, 100% reliable. Now the owners appear to have done a volte face and given us a couple of park bench dwellers who spend their days drinking, smoking and swearing. All this, of course, with wide-open windows which give on to a beautifully resonant courtyard. Toulouse is still in the midst of an Indian summer so we have the privilege of being subjected to their incoherent, alcoholic ramblings whenever they're in residence. It's a bit like living next door to Hans Neuenfels. Tomorrow is our house management company's AGM, so we'll have a few things to talk about.