The Pearl Fisher

The morning light can be an intensely painful experience at my new lodgings. As yet uncurtained the sun always manages to send a deadly shaft through a chink in the blinds directly into my right eye. It is always my right. This inevitably leads to rising at dawn or at least a cursing and rolling over. This morning the searing pain was heightened by my foolish nocturnal gambollings. Nevertheless I have risen and have been sending out reminder invitations to the Biennale. This was reasonably straight forward although because of changes in email providers and software I have found myself painstakingly rebuilding mailing lists. It was, however, a meditative process which allowed me to mull over my ridiculously ad hoc Internet provision. I am currently in the thrall of two btopenzone contracts both of which are entirely useless as btopenzone quite frankly doesn't work. They continue to draw money from me on a monthly basis, a galling irritation. I have since purchased an embarassing pink dongle (from another company) which refuses to let me on dangerous sites like Twitter and will not allow me to prove my age however hard I try. As a result of this I am aging at an accelerated rate and may soon be eligible for a senior discount. This is evident in the pile of hair on my living room floor. It has not fallen out but is significantly greyer than I remember. I had the idea that I would cut my hair and finish off the performative sideburns so that I, and they, would be at our best for the opening weekend. I have not been to a hairdressers for nearly twenty years mainly fearing that disapproving tsk tsk and the inevitable question "who cut this last?". On reflection perhaps I should have gone to a professional but it is too late all is lost. The sideburns are now too short and my hair patchy like a dog with mange.