“I am a reluctant sleeper. When I go to bed all the past rises up before me, all the things I have done badly and all the things I have not done come and sit on the pillow like the germs of some disease, infecting me with vivid wakefulness.” - H.V. Morton.
Due to the fact that I’m a cynical asshole, I was surprised by how much I don’t completely dislike Olivia Bee. I think it’s because she seems to actually work pretty hard for her career, and I really admire self made people. Especially in a time when who you know means so much more than your ability.
I’m in the bedroom of my Newcastle house and I am bored. I’ve been studying for my art conservation course t’night and I feel I need some sort of positive break that doesn’t make me feel guilty (i.e. watching TV). So, has anyone got any good book recommendations? In the sort of “woe is me” vibe.
I’m very sad to think that, for now, this will be my last week living in Glasgow. I’ve spent four years living here in total, with three spent in the same flat. I’ve become very fond of my flat (and Glasgow itself) in these three years which have been a constant and comforting backdrop to my university career. I realise that no doubt I’m viewing my time here with rose-tinted specs as it wasn’t always that fun or easy all of the time, but it has for sure been an important stage in some sort of progression.
I’m aware that I will miss the places, the environment, and the nice people I’ve met here, but it is also important to remember the feelings of apprehension I had about coming here in the first place. Hopefully that means that in two years I will feel the same fondness for another city and will have had an equally happy time there.
I am aware this sounds like I’m dying, I’m not, I’m just moving down the road to Newcastle. Don’t say that’s the same thing…
I went on a trip to the Andalucia region of Spain this summer. I was there from late May to early June. It’s funny how long ago that seems now.
One of the best bits of the trip was lying on the beach in Cadiz with my gerlfrund. I was eating some cherries and enjoying a bit in “A Moveable Feast”, Hemingway’s notes on his time in Paris. He was describing how F. Scott Fitzgerald had come to him upset due to the fact he had a tiny penis.