I’m TRYING to have an intellectual night in my room by blogging, listening to Madonna’s possibly best album (Ray of Light – it transends, people) and getting my brain ready to tackle the last few pages of my Kabbalist inspired mystery type story by the Serbian writer whose name I cannot spell (except the David part) which has been written without the benefit of paragraphs, so is just hundreds of pages of block text, and is quite difficult to follow. Brilliant, but fuck do you work for it. However never let it be said that it does not contain one of my most favourite lines ever in a book – our hero, being completely stoned and looking around for something in a kitchen, kneels down, and peers into something, where he tells me he felt ”my brain touch my forehead on the inside.” This is fantastic, and should be a medical description of all self induced highs, be they drug, alcohol or naturally attained.
Anyway, here I am preparing myself for the superior onslaught of writing far better than I will ever achieve in my non-career, when Lilsister calls me from her mobile phone, worryingly, as I had left her in the living room ironing only moments before. Do I want spicy pork chops for dinner tomorrow, she asks.
I don’t know, I reply, because I like mashed potatoes with my pork chops, but Scarydancer is cooking tomorrow, and he doesn’t like mash, and if he makes anything else it won’t be right.
What is Scarydancer putting with the chops, I ask, and Lilsister says she doesn’t know.
We both ponder a little in the silence. I decide to throw caution to the wind. Okay, I say. Sure lash on the pork chops.
He’ll figure something out, she says back.
Where are you, I ask.
In bed, she says.
In the next room? I ask.
Yes, she says. I couldn’t be bothered getting out to ask you and Scarydancer is going to defrost the chops first thing in the morning so he had to know now.
Oh, I say. That’s fairly lazy of you.
Yeah, she says. But it’s Monday.