So where's my fucking Pony?

I don't think we'll send it to Grandma.
She might find it funny. A little girl praying with the thought bubble...so where's my fucking pony. We laughed. Her dear little grandson. That's the card he liked the best. And when I suggested something a little more appropriate, he chose the card with a little boy on it. It read...When I grow up I want to be....a famous homo-sexual. She's not big on ponies but given the choice...I think she'd prefer the pony. Well, it was a gay bookstore. And Jim is nice. We got chatting about house swaps. I gave him all he needs to know to do it himself. He started to wonder what I was getting out of it. Do I work for craigslist? No. No commission. It's my religion. And the girl in the cafe from Milan. She went to IED where Alex teaches. I gave her Richard's list. So a good walk back from our excursion that didn't happen.

The dried up hunched over woman with the clip-board said we weren't on the list. I was feeling a bit like a Jew in wartime. I just told her to speak to Riense. He arrived late and said we could go. But one driver was ill. Imagine letting down over a hundred people for a trip as you have no other drivers available. I've never seen that happen, but so glad to not be going. Half on half off an hour later...who was really deserving of going to Brighton for the day. Pitiful. A full on debate continued as we left.

We have had a constructive day painting our pony grey and covering up the mildew. So many other essential things to do but passports and the ticket...it's enough. I am so done with this place. I barely have the energy to leave. I told her my address. She hadn't heard of Boswell street so I told her it was in Chicago. Fuck her and her fucking clip board.

And the lactose intolerant lady who said I couldn't leave my backpack in the room for twenty minutes while I sorted something out. Get yourself a child and see if you have time to worry about the health and safety of what might happen if a backpack is left unattended. These fascist council idiots. I never told her to fuck off, but the whole time I was doing my essentials, I was giving her a silent piece of my mind that would have ended me up in a fucking court case if I said it out loud. I just used the non-violent approach and left my backpack there.

Summer rhymes with dummer. There has been a lesson in it. It's called forward planning. Thinking a few months ahead. Thinking I could survive the summer without getting out of here. Don't I know myself by now? I don't know how much longer I will have this flexibility and freedom. It comes at a price.

The biggest high this year was being stranded in Valencia on a deserted beach. And it wasn't even our fault. We had every right to be there. The same address for five years. That is a record. Many people stay in the same place all their life. It's normal. They accumulate things. They have good friends. Making good friends in London has been like trying to grow a palm tree in the arctic. Maybe I just don't have time. We could easily be at a picnic today at the Tate, but we just didn't go there. A tomb of invitations. Social grave. But gravity when I go out. I love it.

My biggest problem lately is the crap computer I'm using and the lack of a proper website. Something very simple to some people. All I think about is Ben and what he needs. I am trying to think about myself again. It is like winding a watch backwards. I did it. I bought some new shoes for myself for his birthday. Two pair. And then even a third. I think my family don't realise that in order for Ben to be happy and healthy, I have to be a little bit happy myself. The happy. Where is that happy?