Sunday, 9 September 2012


If posts are rather thin on the ground at the moment it's partly because the Blogger toolbar at the top of the screen has disappeared so signing in and posting is no longer an impulse thing but more of a pain in the arse.

Anyhow, I was at a dinner party last night at which one of the other guests was a monstre sacré of the local art establishment. He brought a camera with him and photographed all aspects of the proceedings for his archive, which  he estimates, is worth in the region of several million pounds. I don't think he was terribly interested in me - depression has dialled my introversion and shyness up to 11 so where before I was mildly boring company, now I am extraordinarily so. Nonetheless I am now part of his archive.

Which got me thinking. I'm extremely bad at getting rid of stuff and putting stuff away. Just from here I can see a heap of years old credit card slips, some very out of date Viking catalogues, compliments slips from many a failed venture and many, many pieces of cabling that might come in useful at some point. Previously I thought this was clutter. Now I'm calling it an archive, which I shall probably leave to the state on my demise.


  1. Yes. I love the magnificent arrogance of this man.

    Who is he...?

  2. Someone who I imagine tracks his google alerts. I shall email you.

  3. ...reports are coming in of the sudden and unexpected death of the renowned archivist, photographer and all-round ponce ****** ***** who was found in his tastefully appointed penthouse apartment with an affronted expression on his botoxed face and six years' worth of Viking catalogues shoved up his saggy arse...

  4. No sign of Botox I'm afraid. On the whole he has earned the right to be arrogant. I just wish I could carry off that level of assurance.