Woke up with a phrase playing over and over in my head, again. Something from a dream in which the Radio One DJ Scott Mills appeared, “you can own an opinion but not an idea,” he said, before making it clear that I’d outstayed my welcome at his flat. He did this like a malicious schoolboy, by pointedly ignoring me and making loud and happy phone calls to all in sundry in front of me, like I wasn't even there. The more intimate the detail, the greater the insult.
The execs on the train are also hard at it this morning, bowling on endlessly about scopes, projects and consultations, and, even worse, interpersonal workplace relations. It's really irritating and also a bit insulting to my mind but I guess they didn't get where they are today by being thin-skinned. It’s dull and yet so frenetic - in that uber business-like way - that I can hardly think. I long for a plain and simple thought to take the pain away.
When Poz and I were brushing our teeth this morning I was trying to get him to move the brush up and down, like the dentist used to tell me to. These days they recommend an electric brush for a more thorough job, and now Poz is wondering why he needs to move his brush up and down when daddy clearly doesn’t. Does this mean I have to buy him an electric one, to bring his training up to date, or myself an old fashioned manual one? Or should I just leave him be? I thought brushing our teeth was a simple thought – not anymore, thanks to technology, and good technology at that.
When he is my age he’ll probably be able to have all his teeth replaced once a year, can you imagine, fashion teeth. Pointy ones like vampires, chrome ones with kanji characters etched into them, glass teeth for those blessed with the perfect hourglass epiglottis...
At least the Black Bullet is a happy place for me, it’s not simple like a toothbrush is, but it is compared to a modern motorbike. It doesn’t even have a key, can you believe it, no lock and no key. I love this for what it says about the era in which it was made and I want to inculcate the same sense of trust and freedom in my life but, of course, I'm afraid that the bike will be stolen.
I rode it into town a while back, parked up in the square and walked away with an anxious backward glance, patting imaginary keys in my pockets. As a result, I forgot to shut off the fuel tap. I returned a minute later to turn the fuel off and noticed two guys eyeing her up. They were only curious but despite my best intentions, this time, I was more than a little defensive. I glowered at them and pushed the bike into a more secluded car park over the road. Stupid really, but there it is, I was jealous and protective, like a father over his daughter.
The tube is out when I get to Paddington and a crowd is growing at the entrance to the ticket hall. I’m due to inspect a new hospital facility at Great Ormond Street so I reckon a bus to Russell Square will do. The wall map tells me a Number 7 is good and that this loops round the station, stopping twice. I choose the first stop for a better shot at getting a seat but the road is up on that side of the station and all the bus stop signs have little bags over them. I head off through the rain to the second stop. I’ll get there eventually, I just have to remain flexible.
