Left the country late last night.

Got up late.

I wondered why I drove down to the city last night, as I gazed bleary-eyed out the window this morning to see what sort of day it was in the inner suburbs, scratching my arse waiting for life to return to every cell in my body. When I get something into my head sometimes I just do it - middle of the night I got in my car. It was overcast and looked like it had been raining. Another cheery day in the city, I thought.

What to do? As I, actually, felt myself pine for the wide open spaces.

I wandered aimlessly down to Smith Street, ate a late lunch and read the newspaper from cover to cover. Seven confirmed deaths of Swine Flu and yet it is a potential pandemic. Politicians and newspaper editors should all be put at the bottom of the bay with property developers and lawyers.

I looked in a few book shops, on the way back, for inspiration. There was a lot of Gabriel García Márquez, I should read him. But, that pointy-faced, know-all, Jacqueline, in my tutes at uni loved him and it always, kinda, put me off. Margaret Atwood was well represented too. I saw her talk once and she was fascinating, but the weirdest looking woman I have ever seen. I didn't know that Jack Kerouac wrote so many books. Ah, cute Luke from work, with those beautiful blue eyes, loved him. It made me think of the time when we were smashed on alcohol when he said he'd love to party all night with me. Be still my beating heart. Where's the modern day equivalent of The Wasp Factory when you need it. I thought of London and Turnpike Lane tube station where I found it in the book shop and read the it from cover to cover. Where was I going that day?

I hunted for a table cloth, preferably dark coloured for the table I have set up in my bedroom, for my laptop, in my bay window hoping for a little bright sunshine inspiration, nothing except for plastic... and floral. (Jasus!) I came home.

I smoked pot with (my) Luke over the weekend, now I'm craving it. Stupid me.