tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-183733052008-05-05T21:27:19.595+01:00mary annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059182914563988589noreply@blogger.comBlogger342125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-32225704365314848382008-04-28T22:01:00.005+01:002008-04-28T22:42:11.497+01:00

5:30am. Coach 16, Seat 11. Dosed up on mocha and the Kronos Quartet. After a couple of minutes of tunnel turning the window into an unflattering mirror, I am gifted an A13 dawn. The blades of a giant industrial windmill carve the air, there is a concrete road in the sky funnelling unrelenting traffic and I am on a train that travels under the sea. For a moment, this feels like the sci-fi future

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-66434953288885534812008-04-25T21:35:00.001+01:002008-04-28T21:49:06.817+01:00

The last two days have been stolen by swapping Wars of Dissolution stories with hard-drinking Anglo-Serbs and bonding over a shared love of cooking with a charming American multi-millionaire who was proud to have voted Bush. While it is great fun to swap recipes and discover my Serbian swearing is still up to scratch, I need to be home. My heart needs to be resting canalside. I might be a

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-44718084632954167632008-04-07T18:24:00.000+01:002008-04-07T14:26:57.253+01:00

A while back, Stephen Grasso commented to me that he appreciated reading the entries on my blog about cooking, how the tales of finding ingredients and preparing them were actually small love stories. Perceptive. Whether baking bread or pulling everything together for a risotto, my cooking is often one of those commonplace expressions of love that can easily be overlooked. A bit of the everyday

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-53335034965775511322008-03-17T08:03:00.000Z2008-03-24T15:09:25.560Z

I am back in London. Washed out light on a dragon breath morning. A quarrelling parliament of geese on the canal. Cold rain washing the face. Given the problems I had with flying – blood, pain and inappropriate unconsciousness – I cannot return to Australia for a few months. My heart is back in blue haze mountains, Balmain’s Royal Oak Hotel and skies intent on mimicking the opening sequence of

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-19584931924985858392008-02-23T05:29:00.000Z2008-03-10T21:25:01.049Z

The respite of Singapore is short. Within an hour I am back on the plane. It is the first time in my life I have not been eager to leave an airport. Over the Java Sea, blood begins to trickle from my left nostril. Quickly soaking all available tissues, it keeps on flowing, falling onto my jacket with Pollockian intent. Great, just great. I will have to face Australian immigration looking like I

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-8129599107618421722008-02-22T23:59:00.002Z2008-03-09T16:23:24.818Z

On the ground, the screen in front of me shows London as a huge yellow boil growing from green skin patterned with thin veins of blue. Only three roads are marked: A4, M25 – the city’s magic circle – and A13, first ley of English Hoodoo and my ancestral road. I wish my journey only involved taking one of these paths. It is 5,767 miles/12 hours and 50 minutes to Singapore. As we taxi, the

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-50601588512066875592008-02-22T18:05:00.001Z2008-02-22T14:08:00.974Z

I am sorry for the lack of recent posts. I am even more sorry that I have not yet responded to everyone took the time to wish me a happy birthday last week. The desire to write has been obscured by the ill health of my Nanna and the preparations for shifting my flesh 10,500 miles to Australia. Unfortunately I am not flying to Oz by winged monkey, but with the tepid assistance of British Airways.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-51201970282223231502008-02-11T19:34:00.000Z2008-02-12T14:31:14.207Z

When a wonder becomes pervasive, there is a danger we become dull to its innate splendour. You can ignore any miracle if it is routine. Today I was reminded of the simple magic of email and Internet by unexpected treasure in my inbox. On Friday, hobbling back to the canal, my mind still blazing with literary fire, I thought of the forces which shaped my relationship with words. I was wishing

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-19014701369120567902008-02-08T23:07:00.000Z2008-02-12T12:47:45.527Z

Aside from my author friends, there are only five writers I would break even a Belgrade curfew to go hear talk. Ballard, Moore, MacLeod, Sinclair and Self. Even if I was struggling with two broken legs, I would put the weight on my crutches and drag myself across the city for any one of them speaking. Sinclair and Self on the same bill talking about psychogeography. Dream tickets do not get any

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-39612739437143949962008-02-04T23:38:00.000Z2008-02-05T00:07:51.371Z

The world is full of time-honoured wonder, full of established brilliance overlooked in the blast of the new. I remember as a truculent teenager feeling out of step when friends were obsessed with latest suburban pop and I was discovering the joy of Revolver. How could George Michael ever compete with the sense of tumbling through alternate realities you got while listening to Tomorrow Never

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-85895136088773365152008-01-24T18:58:00.000Z2008-01-24T19:01:46.079Z

There is no need to go into details, but I am currently unable to walk without the aid of a stick. My system flooded with analgesics from the hospital, the throbbing is tolerable. However, there will be no psychogeographic walking, cooking or vertical fun for at least 10 days. This morning, as Surreal Girl pushed me in around St. Mary’s in a wheelchair, visions of Luke Haines crowded my mind. I

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-83459997926651074322008-01-21T22:57:00.000Z2008-01-21T23:31:00.950Z

A few weeks back I saw La Vie En Rose, a fractured and bruised telling of the life Édith Piaf. Its saving graces were Marion Cotillard, the fact much of it was shot to look like an Edward Hopper painting and the gloriously restored versions of Piaf’s songs. Today, after only limited buggering around by the postal services, the original soundtrack was delivered. Despite its lack of Cassandre

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-236455190119769342008-01-18T23:59:00.000Z2008-01-21T22:47:11.969Z

The light is failing as I begin the trudge to Essex. The tipping point in a grey afternoon when cars lose the definitions of marque and colour, become nothing but white headlight glare. I move too slowly through the Piccadilly, the neon dream of now obscuring its secret Masonic history. It is near dark as I traverse the ghost zone of Bell Yard. Stuttering through the streets, I feel a surge of

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-48774066931965563142008-01-15T20:57:00.000Z2008-01-15T21:18:36.323Z

Google Analytics remains grand fun. The cryptic messages delivered via may have it stopped after I complained about enigmatic buggering around, but it keeps delivering both insight and amusement. There is something very gratifying about learning the average visitor from Russia spends 14 minutes and 28 seconds reading this blog. It is also gratifying to see I am regular read by 47 of the 50

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-78969061818789638592008-01-08T19:08:00.000Z2008-01-10T15:25:14.758Z

There are parts of London that still make me feel as if I am walking through a museum of painful ghosts. Given they are areas such as St James, the Law Courts and Bell Yard, avoidance is not usually a problem. However, today as I trudged towards the ITN building to record an interview for Channel 4 News, there was no way of evading Chancery Lance and Grays Inn Road. Sometimes I wish the huge

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-11267582025833636652008-01-05T23:59:00.000Z2008-01-06T23:12:07.477Z

Morning may have arrived with a burst of exuberant sunshine bothering the curtains, but it was clear to me I was not going to be able to match its energy. I have been running on vapours for too many days. It took until nearly noon for me to drain my second cup of tea and let the arrival of my ticket to Australia to sink in. Depending on route and weather, in sevens weeks time I may be flying

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-48136798214683501072008-01-04T20:44:00.000Z2008-01-04T21:25:01.571Z

I rarely do outright political rants on this blog. In fact, there are surprisingly few full-scale rants on any subject in the archives of English Dreaming, English Rain. Gordon Ramsay deserved one for his initial plans for ruining The Warrington and I will not apologise for any tirade made against some of the turnip-headed twats in the legal profession. However, if you do not like invective or

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-63351238203065773772008-01-01T10:14:00.000Z2008-01-01T10:20:39.756Z

I am trying to prepare myself for going to Australia. Beyond the 22-hour flight, beyond travelling into the 11-hour time difference future, I have to be ready for total dislocation from my land. Wherever I walk in England – from London’s event patined streets to Dorset’s fossil rich beaches – I am always connected. On the green lanes and sweep paths of Kent or Sussex, in the woods of Hereford

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-69050956356997970732007-12-24T21:36:00.000Z2007-12-27T19:44:51.941Z

As if getting copies of the latest version of my work to be published in South Korea had not delivered enough pleasant astonishment for one day, Surreal Girl announced I was to be given a ‘surprise’. Beyond being told it was a ‘treat’, being given a precise time (‘4:05pm’) and a maddeningly wide location (‘Piccadilly Circus’), no more information was forthcoming. This was typical of her modus

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-37083245464530513452007-12-24T12:36:00.000Z2007-12-27T12:42:29.752Z

It might be down to the fact I rarely get more than three hours of sleep, but I am not a morning person. Others may bounce with Tigger cheer just after dawn, but I struggle to glue myself together before 9am. While I am often awake to hear the early morning quarrels of the geese outside and the chug-chug-chug of a passing canal boat add to a soundscape dominated by John Humphrys’ acerbic scorn,

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-90511457727705288172007-12-19T20:31:00.000Z2007-12-24T20:46:52.552Z

Trying to shake the sleep from my eyes this morning, I stood and looked out on the canal. There was something wrong with the picture. Still addled with the decay of half-life dreams, it took me a few moments to process what was different. The canal was frozen. Except for one small patch that stood up to the bullying of the -5°C temperature during the night, the water around my home was now

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-49967349191970754462007-12-13T19:48:00.000Z2007-12-14T08:28:21.311Z

This morning canalside was dusted white. The roofs of boats painted with hoar frost, the towpath glinting thanks to its temporary crystal carpet. Neither the smoking chimneys of the barges, pumping out the intoxicating scent of burning wood, nor the runty sun were shifting the new palette. I walked along the canal, boots crunching frost flowers. I left shiny impressions of my previous position

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-58042021966714837362007-12-10T18:43:00.000Z2007-12-10T18:46:49.592Z

At the moment I keep reading official documents that refer to me as David So. I worry that this interesting approach to energy conservation while typing in some circles will eventually lead to the creation of a tulpa. I am not sure the David So who currently lives only in the words of bureaucratic papers is a homunculi I would want to see achieve awareness. David So is certainly not a man to be

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-58822478438460917252007-12-09T13:34:00.000Z2007-12-09T13:38:11.596Z

Due to circumstances beyond my control I may shortly be homeless. It will break my heart to leave the canal, pushed inland by brute economics. Tears will be shed. I could start feeling the sorrow now. It would be the perfect partner for the worry about where I will be laying my head after this year closes. Yet last night the only response that made sense was to host a party. Adrian, the lovely

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18373305.post-64892980552604529282007-12-05T21:15:00.000Z2007-12-06T21:52:29.132Z

I am lucky enough to enjoy the support of some ardent fans of my published work. Although I worry about anyone who will bid more than £296 on eBay for my privately circulated monograph on the Angry Brigade (I do not even own a copy anymore and that price never will again) their enthusiasm for my output is beyond flattering. While I may be flabbergasted at the lengths this small band of

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10882543653925973357noreply@blogger.com