after a good foot-chewing

I can't sleep. It's 5 in the bloody morning, and I'm up. Just call me Limps With Foxes. The last time i was up at this ungodly hour was to catch a cab to the airport, and i had a nice convo with a tame urbane fox who was sniffing at my suitcase.

Am I a Drama Queen? Or am I a Dairy Queen? (Fairy Queen, yes, clearly) I went to Neal's Yard Dairy today - creme de la creme, quite literally, all organic - and bought an ewe's milk greek style yog. the wheels of stilton, cheddar, french, dutch and italians are piled neatly in the windows like dead soldiers, yet cultured and alive. it smells like a cellar (I was scrunching up my toes and shuddered with delight -i have this this wierd reaction to the smell of damp earth/cement) and also like vomit, so extremity visited me once again.

Past an ironmonger's square (tucked away near the 7 dials of covent garden) to Monmouth coffee shop, where the Sumatra had a dark cherry wood finish, like a 1916 writing desk I once saw that I cannot purge from my "I must have" memory. A man named Nicholas Saunders ran what sounded like a Ye Olde Purveyors Shoppe on the site "a very long time ago" the shaggy coffeeboy told me. I had inquired about the 4 ancient benched booths that we sit in (altogether now!) to enjoy our cuppas. There was one wee nook suitable for a sole person that was sad and irresistable all at once. Where to stare....I hastily bought a $15 mini-bag and hoarded it away in the freezer behind the cod stix. Nobody will look there, Scooby.

I used my charming Canadian accent (at least i thought i did) to procure many free samples from the face-product shop, had a nice chat with the naturopath at Neal's Yard Remedies, who gave me a tonic that tastes like raspberry juice, and proceeded to Chinatown. I won't describe the duck, which was likely hanging in the neighbouring shop and smoking a healthy fag earlier that morning. remember that Globe article a few months ago? let me see if i can find it...


click on first link in google.

yes, you see? my dinner did bear a remarkable resemblance to that man in the photo.

In other news, i slunk into St. Paul's yesterday ( I am reminded about it because of the bathroom at the Monmouth cafe, which was the size of a confessional). Follow the signs to St. Andrew (Lurking) by the Wardrobe. He's going to come out of his british closet any day now... Anyway, the last service was winding down, prayers of the people and all that, and I was admiring a plaque inscribed Ralph of Sudbury when the organ postlude hit. I staggered visibly. A wash of screetching and booming that filled the dome and the ears. Only my companions (low brass player and RMT) seemed to be affected, and we stood there agape, alone. What stalwartness of the masses, what? I could discern no tonality in the chosen piece because of the way it all mashed itself together like a mince-pie. Worse/better than truly eerie film music - and i don't mean that Theremin/Onde Martineau "Good Vibrations" stuff. We decided that the organist was smearing parts of his body on the keyboard in order to make such wonderful sounds.