It’s bloody miserable in Bungay today. The wind is howling and it makes me want to climb inside my rolltop desk and hide until March. Can’t though, that’d be weird. And I’d die.
My son (2.5 years old) is watching Peppa Pig – short, animated tales about a 4 year old pig. The narrator sounds ever so slightly sarcastic, which provides some light relief for the parents. It’s not what I want to watch. I want to watch something heavy and important, ideally set in the 1920s/30s. Not the new(ish) adaptation of Brideshead Revisited. That made me want to rip out my own eyes so I wouldn’t have to watch it anymore. In the end I just turned it off.
Everyone’s a bit ill in this house. My son has a constant cold and my wife has the pregnancy aches and pains. I’m just a bit fed up. Oh dear, Peppa has just lost her shoes in the garden. I have six poems to write about Hornchurch by 12 January. I haven’t written any yet. But I have tidied my desk, so that’s something. I have also written a script of sorts that links together 10 new poems which will form the basis of my new show. I think I will call the show Jeremy, Who Drew Penises On Everything (and other poems). Then I can have a self-important picture of myself on the poster with a cartoon cock drawn on my forehead. Though, as I write that, I start to wonder exactly why I would want to.
Peppa and her family have gone to Windy Castle now. Maybe I should go and do some parenting.