Twisted day

Indeed. It was. Woke up sick and weak, and coughing up lung butter. Missed the court appearance, seemingly got little done, a few advancements, then rushed to film in the centre of London. I coughed all the way through the interview.

Then Rickshaw. Fixing shit put time in base, and a 30 minute delay because the NCP operator went anal on my comment about taking her five minutes to answer my call for assistance. Good job I wasn't a mugging vicitm, or worse.

My comment led to me being ignored for some 30 minutes. In the meantime my left tyre went down slow and silent.

The night was clean, no cash, not for most. Then a fight broke out on Old Compton Street. Rickshaws all stepped in to defend the rider from a group of six well-dressed men, one of whom had tried to jump in the rear of his Rickshaw.

I was just having fun, he said.

But his fun went up the nose, no regard for the consequences, no matter how disassociated with him it was, at that moment in time, no matter where it was in the world.

His eyeballs were heavily dilated, so much I could clearly see the moon relfected in them. He drew in aggression like a vacuum. And was getting into it. A story to tell over many bar tables, in between regular visits to the toilet where horizontal mirrors lie ready and waiting.

Now, back home, getting into some heavy research, whilst burning and rendering, and trying to calm down and disinfect myself of the lung butter with hot honey and lemon.