Sickness

Ebb tide in appetite- cannot eat, cannot sleep, diary is all that is left to me. My companion and I have been struck down with an ague or is it a pox? I know no more than we make frequent, and lately unproductive, visits to the bathroom while feeling vague and listless. A bath is drawn next door but neither feels the inclination to take it. Outside the town's revelry has begun with the usual shouts, catcalls and musical abrasions that punctuate a Friday night in the centre of Ipswich. My companion, more productive than I, is replying to letters from siblings. She as a large number, sisters all, of which I have met three.

Gutteral cackling in the street below, low and menacing.

In my weakened state I am finding concentration difficult. Unable to settle to any task I have left letters unanswered, emails unread. Earlier I set down a list of 'things to do' but with little conviction. Not on the list were the vexed issue of my sideburns. I have decided to apply a little rigour to them for my visit to the opening weekend of the biennale. I have determined that the best course of action is to choose an image from one of Mr Cushing's vampire films and to scientifically and painstakingly reproduce his sideburns in living bristle. Perhaps I have said this before?

Trot of heels, steady and regular.












-- posted abroad