If Kafka were a swede

I'm sitting here in a bit of a dappled green jungly place, because the Wysteria outside my window got very heavy with foliage and broke from the wall. It hangs and scrapes and squeeks my window and I ought to go out there with the ladder and sort it out.

I had a journey to the Kafka nightmare of Ikea yesterday. I think the free bus is ferrying people into the back there and turning them into flatpack furniture like Soylent Green. Cry out 'MDF is people!' before it is too late. But I got some frames to paint up for some of my brush paintings. And a light for my easel, which is in a dark corner.

I've written a chunk of story today, and fully plan to do more. I feel at the best of times that I can write in a month what a 'proper author' might in a couple of days, but some things get done.

I got such nice things in the post today! But still no copies of my own book...

I've been watching a load of Andrew Bird on youtube. He's a pretentious man isn't he? Like a stick-in-the-mud I only really loved the silly swing stuff he used to do, mostly because his oh-so-proper voice works better there, for me. But he can play that fiddle. It's been making me practice again. He's rather pretty, too.

Here's some doomed customers: