Instead of catching up on correspondence

Yesterday, Notting Hill at lunchtime, smell of charred paper in the air. Several drinks and out onto the street, it's now almost acrid. Whenever I smell this kind of smoke, wherever I am, I wonder if it's my own books that are burning.

In Hatchard's a woman with her hair fashioned into a brittle auburn helmet approaches me with a book and asks: 'Would this be suitable for my daughter?'. She must think I work there. That's okay. Were we in Waterstone's I'd be offended.

After seeing the operetta at the ENO the other day (stylish but occasionally cumbersome and overdone), rereading Candide - I recognise the tone from when I first encountered it at thirteen.

On Piccadilly, amplified noise of birdsong emanating from Fortnum's. From a distance it works as a decoy, reflected off the buildings. Closer to, screechy, aurally gaudy.

In Green Park a man in late middle age and a suit walking with a young woman who did not quite seem to be his daughter. They were walking slowly, something about them suggested that each were thinking, separately but about the same thing. Then he said: "The tragedy of it was that he loved an unconventional woman in a conventional manner."

Disturbing song lyrics: If That's Okay With You.

When I type I listen to Gay radio. Lyrically the music is short on profundity. I'm not asking for Baudelaire, in fact it would be distracting to have anything in terms of meaningful song writing. It's this or drum and bass and with that I always get temporary dyslexia after an hour or so. 

But sometimes a track comes on, and I hear the words, and I think 'Christ on a bike, that's gruesome'. This particular example, I don't know whether it's creepy or psychotic or what. The central theme is young Mr Ward's manifest politeness, but from there it gets disturbing. 

I love the way that you look without your make up 
Aw. Bless. He likes you just as you are. Best keep the warpaint off, eh. All that slap's for whores, harlots and jezebels, you know. Also, you might want to cover your hair a bit. Well, completely really. Just when you're out, where men can see you.

I had a girl before we met but we broke up
Not that he was wanting for female company, but she's out of the picture now, right? Implication being he chucked her for you, princess. No pressure mind!

There's something ’bout you that makes me want to step up, step up and be with you
He wants to step up! Aren't you flattered? So grown-up and responsible. That's a man, not a boy, right there. He'll be wanting a medal for that later.

If that's okay with you 
We're going to hear this conditional clause about two dozen times throughout the song, but the first few at least may seem endearingly sensitive and unpushy. 

And anyway: we’ll keep the neighbors awake too late too late 
So, the noise abatement order, the anti-social behaviour order, the eventual eviction by the housing association aside, the lad's going to be fun.

Also, he's going to: make you feel like you are heaven on earth
Now there's a challenge to 'step up' to: you won't just feel as if you're in heaven - you'll actually be that imaginary celestial-spiritual dimension. Can't say fairer than that.

More if-that's-okay-with-yous. Beginning to sound a tad unassertive now. Seeking reassurance. Bit needy perhaps?

Now he's either going to thank, or in some transcriptions 'saint' (what, he's the Pope?) your mother just for giving you birth. My perspective may be buttoned-up and English, but even in Latin cultures that would be considered excessive. Can you imagine how embarrassed your mum's going to be if he gets a chance to do either of those? As part of his 'stepping up' programme he's probably been pestering you for an introduction to your family, but best avoid it if I was you.

I'm gonna wanna hold you in my arms when you cry
There, just let it all out, have a good sob. No point in telling him: no, s'alright babe, I'm quite happy at the minute as it goes. He's gonna wanna, and that wannaing starts about now. Chop some onions, summon up a sad thought to get the waterworks going like actors do, just get blubbing. Before he gives you something to cry about. There, isn't that better? Is that okay with you? 

I wanna keep your toothbrush at my apartment
Or you can use his! He'd like that. He really would. 

Make a second set of keys and ask you to move in
No, really. You can have those two shelves and that half of the wardrobe. Just don't touch his collection of Battlestar Galactica action figures. Don't touch them! 

I’m not crazy, I know what I'm getting myself in, I wanna live with you, If that's ok with you
He's done his research and it's a mature decision on his part. Not impulsive or disturbingly sudden or anything. Okay? He said, is that okay? Well? Good girl. Dyson's under the stairs by the way. And don't forget fabric softener when you do his shirts.

There follows a great deal of repetition, including multiple threats to congratulate your ma and piss them at number 27 right off. Also, a bit more crying in his arms wouldn't go amiss, eh? It would be rude to refuse. 

If that's okay with you
It is, isn't it? 

If that's okay with you
He asked you a question. 

If that's okay with you
Well? 

If that's okay with you
He's got all day...

If that's okay with you If that's okay with you If that's okay with you If that's okay with you If that's okay with you.
Just say yes. Then use that second set of keys and let yourself out very quietly. Then get a restraining order. And make sure your mum's got one as well. Leave town. Change your name. 

Iedereen wil weten / Waarom ik rondloop met een grote glimlach op mijn gezicht

Talking of mental dexterity, I was in the pub with a friend the other lunchtime and that Brief History of Time bloke came up in conversation. How things had gone bad with his first wife, and one day he was sat in the garden in blazing sun, getting hotter and hotter... and she took away the thing that controlled his wheelchair. A veritable genius, baked where he sits because his missis has gone on a strop and unplugged his special mouse. I know it's not funny, but. We were in fits. Angelika and Agniewska didn't know what to make of it.

While I'm getting the next round in, a geezer turns to me and says: that Portuguese player, don't he look like a pimp's errand boy? And now he mentions it, so he does.

My heartfelt thanks to the Spaniard for putting a stop to this before it got even more embarrassing:
"...one woman spectator emitted a chilling staccato shriek that sounded like a feral cat being fed slowly into the rotating blade of a combine harvester."