We well do the town. Then blow up parliament!

We will escape to Paris and live off silly food, excellent wine, and whores.

Ah, now I know where Muswell Hillbillies comes from.

Arkansas?!

Hell. there's even a brewery called Muswell Hillbilly. I had their IPA, but didn't like it much. Too cloudy. The gearbox on my POS cab has gone, and this being the busy time of year means they don't have an immediate replacement. I told them there was a problem with the gearbox about three ****ing months ago. This is terrible.

On the plus side, I got a voucher for Neal's Yard cheese shop last Xmas, which I only got around to redeeming the other day, which was the last possible day. Somewhere in the Confessions of an English Opium-Eater it says that happiness is only possible sitting by the fire on a cold, Autumn evening, or words to that effect, and eating some top-quality cheese with a glass of port reminds me that life isn't all bad.

... not to mention the laudanum.

By the way, I am uncomfortable with this remark I made:

because, other than some general language issues, race or creed has nothing to do with it. It's not like I have any first-hand experience of working in the fish and chip industry anyhow. I apologize.

And I drove past the Roundhouse again the other night. On the list of those playing are the Sister of Mercy and the Prisoners. Hell, I've seen those, a long time ago, in the Lyceum and the 100 Club. What's going on?

“What’s going on”.

The same idiocy since God tossed Adam and Eve out of that silly garden.

Why do you ask?

Oh, I was just wondering if golden ages are a thing.

I have worked for 26 out of the last 28 days, and one of those days I missed was only because the cab wouldn't start, even with the NOCO GB40 jump starter I bought, which had worked on two previous occasions, but this time the cab sucked the energy out of that in about 30 seconds, two times. The garage said it was mysterious, and put a new alternator in. They really are beginning to accept me. And I feel like working tomorrow, but now that Xmas finally arrived yesterday, everything is upside-down, and the work is coming mostly from randoms in buy-anything mode, rather than the usual places like train stations, some of which are closed tomorrow; but the real reason is that breaking down, when the garage is shut and it's Xmas, would be too painful. A lady got in the other evening, wanting to go to Barons Court, and she's one of these engaging people with money who love taking black cabs and talking to the drivers. We get to talking about Xmas traditions, and I wonder if they still go swimming in the Serpentine in Hyde Park on Xmas morning, in some apparent celebration of British eccentricity for its own sake. There used always to be a snippet on the news about it, which they probably stopped reporting decades ago. That's exactly what I'll be doing, she says.

They also used to do an annual Whitestone Pond swim. Does that still happen?

Never heard of it. It's not that big for a swim. One would swim in the nearby ponds on Hampstead Heath, surely?

It's the highest point in London, I believe, and three, now underground, rivers run down from there: the Fleet, the Tyburn, and the Westbourne. Round the back, down by Branch Hill, there is still a vapour about it.

Banksy put up some removeable work of art in Peckham, and within an hour somebody stole it. Of course somebody stole it. Somebody gets arrested, and that's supposed to be art?

Praying to the wrong God is illegal.

Removable!? How silly. Real art is permanent. Even if an indelible image planted as an image in the mind.

But imagination is now illegal. The liberals have confiscated your mind and thinking wrong thoughts is now a death sentence.

There's not really an Enfield accent, nothing distinctive or remarkable, and I only notice it when I meet up with school friends, or when actors try to do it. You wouldn't know it was Catherine Tate on stage, in a play about the GOAT poltergeist, except she sounds like Amanda Holden in Life is Sweet. I lived about a mile away at the time. These girls have an Enfield accent:



These are actors trying to do an Enfield accent:

I meant Alison Steadman, of course. I've never even heard of Amanda Holden.

Catherine Tate is funny.

Funny is right.

Why is it when you walk a dozen blocks in London you are in a location with a completely different accent!?

I know this is true; I’ve been to the silly city and experienced it myself.

I thought you meant Jane Horrocks. Her character was very Enfield.

The only one distinctive to my ear is the East End accent, but then they talk like they've got mouths full of gobstoppers and the cozzers are just around the corner.

If you want the old school, you can have Sunday lunch in the Seven Stars, coffee and cake in Bar Italia, and drinks in the Cross Keys.

I think I've solved my math problem. It's the Year of the Wood Dragon.

Subbed, just started at page 1, but I would already buy a book you wrote.

Welcome aboard, nootaboos.

Easter. I want to go to the passion play in Trafalgar Square tomorrow, because I drove past it one year and it looked good. And besides, everybody needs a narrative. I find religion being treated as a Boolean tiresome. Alas, I don't think there is going to be time. Of course I haven't solved my math problem, but I am finding new ways to fail. Fail better, somebody said.

Easter is boring! Stick to American baseball!

Well, at least you've eliminated some approaches, charlie. I imagine that's a big part of theoretical math (physics, chemistry, whatever)--trying some ways and finding out, "well, that wasn't a good path after all." (?)

Maths is mind-bending sometimes.

I recently learned that the sum of all positive integers is



Though I do think the proofs I've seen are dubious.