Tuesday, 14 April 2009

That Sinking Feeling

A cold Easter in Norfolk with friends, everything looking beautiful and green; blossom every- where. We ate from the garden: cockerel korma with salad & far too much chocolate.
[Pictured, Wiveton church]
I got home to find the robin - which I believe has mental problems- behaving in his weird, Phil Spectorish way in my garden, as usual. He’s such a freak, I worry that he has seen off my wren. Ok, not my wren, but the wren that graces my messy flower border. I was standing there, a bit paranoid, thinking why has such a deranged bird chosen my garden, when it struck me that like the wren, this garden is not mine, I just share it with whichever wonky-brained creatures choose to come.... And which of us is really the fool here? It might just be the chump who parted with all the money she had in the world for this tiny patch of land (with handy brick attachment). *

[get help you nutter] I am being lightly stalked by an Austrian who, having read my book, has come to a unilateral arrangement as my new best friend. After the third hectoring call on my landline, he is now demanding I host a lunch of 'literary heavyweights' for him to meet when he next comes to town.
Little does he know, all my friends are at the inky, rather than at the bonus end of the industry and we are all eyeing up earthworms in the garden as we panic about how we to feed our children while writing without advances.
[This could explain why the robin and I are not getting on.]
I was going to wriggle out of it, but maybe I should just invite my hungriest writer friends. Does it matter if they pump iron with verbs & clauses rather than publicity & connections? Starving writers, please add your name to the comment column & I will find you a place at the table.
On the news tonight: Phil Spector in his fright wig, looking like a terrifying am-dram version of Marge Simpson, at last convicted of murder of poor Lana Clarkson. I was reminded of a conversation I had with Dominck Dunne, one night last summer. He had covered the original trial that had resulted in a hung jury & lead to this recent re-trial. If I recall correctly, Mr Dunne said that talking to the mad producer's exes, he learned that at the very heart of the matter lay a teeny tiny cock. Maddened & frustrated by its inadequacies, Spector had long ago made a habit of employing a gun as his phallic proxy.... Not who killed cock robin, but who cock robin killed.