There has been no reply from Bagpuss. It is a wait seemingly interminable, but which folds down conveniently into a space no bigger than a rolled-up cagoule. Needless to say I crave attention for my blog, even if it must be in the form of personal abuse. There was a time in Paris where he was to meet me for drinks, and then didn't. When he eventually sent me a telegram it was an intellectual contrivance far beyond my means or drug-intake to understand, and so I took it as abuse.
There are times, my dear, when things do not turn out as planned; grandest ambitions for pastis over our beloved Seine bridge round about sunset (what shite, what were you thinking?). So rent usunder like Stanley & Livingstone in that putrid novel of yours we are. I have been drinking, but I do have your copy of Naked Lunch. Stole it. Fuck off. Telegram!
This was very much his style back then, even if I have just paraphrased it off the top of my head. So yes, I am teaching myself not to be overambitious, particularly where bizarre twisted hopes are dependent on someone else. My putrid novel continues to astonish me (I read back over the last thirty pages today): Dr Johnson had a thing about cats, I learnt, and so now they will appear in every scene. That aside, there are minor gaps to paste over and the words THE END to write in capital letters, just like that.
The weather continues to be indifferent, mooching. One of these days we shall come to blows, and I'll joust him with my titanium umbrella.