Down

Oh god, its happening.

I am walking to Camden, I was going to get the bus, but there's no direct ones, just ones that go half way. So by wandering to the next stop and then the next one, I have reached half way and its no worth getting the bus at all.

There's this bit in 17 where uncle Bill decides to make a hiphop record in the arse end of 1986 and phones up young Jimi. Jimi's wife tells him Jimi's very pissed off cos its his 30th birthday.

Its mine tomorrow and I'm mostly thinking grim thoughts. However, my ideal and possible birthday would be as follows...

I awake slightly hungover and have breakfast with the girl before heading home. I check my domestic email to find one from Linn offering a job as technical monkey at Harrods and another from Yellow Cat offering an interview.

Out on Facebook there's around twenty birthday greetings, four new friend requsts from people I've heard of and by the time my usual surfing routine has made it round to statcounter the naked chicks site has reached 10k after a write up in some major newspaper and elsewhere some political has taken an interest in some graph I've posted on my blog...

I have arrived in Camden back in real life, and as I keep my eyes peeled for record shops my mind wanders into a hypothetical ideal turnout for the pub tomorrow night. I get embarrassed. My social scene, my friend scene has dissolved, vague acquaintances, people I used to know. The only way some folk would be there is if my life had gone very differently years ago.

I reach a record shop, it reminds me of the old Vinyl Exchange in Manchester, but bigger. I'm looking for Josephine Baker, but other than 1930s I dunno what genre she is.

After searching blues, jazz, soul, and fusion, I give up, buy some ironic soul 12" and escape defeated. Yet another flatmate will have to go without a present from me.

I think I've missed the voscars thing. I'd promised I'd go, but discovered the piece of paper I was holding was a flyer, not a ticket, there was only disappointment ahead.

So now, typing this, I'm in the Oh Bar in Camden. It is jazz night, Jazz Blow. On stage some quartet are setting up.

What does tomorrow hold? Already it grips a bag of presents and something mysterious from Amazon.

Can I just eat lots of chocolate, drink vodka and melt into oblivion on the sofa in front of season three of Buffy? Or fulfill this strange urge to record a Stone Roses cover.

Ohh, just remembered from the record shop, there was this Faith No More 12" single, 'the real thing', I think Stu or Murray had the same in 1998, I just notice that St Tony Wilson of Madchester produced it.

Ooh my ladyfriend just called. My heart fills with sunshine.

There will be wee bits of ok tomorrow.

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