Fuck Sundays

I hate Sundays. If you're working and married w/ kids, you try to make an effort to have a 'quality day out' which as often as not decays into squabbling, wailing children, a silent sulk in the car and migraine all round. Then you still have to cook when you get home. And if you're single and carefree, unemployed or a student, the off-licences don't open till 12.30 am- even if you've been up all night and are still ready to roll. Catch-22.

Today I am fucked off about a number of things, including that my pda has died, taking my address book with it, that I broke Nini's nautilus shell while ursinely searching for pda OS CD and usb cable, that my digi-camera is fucking fucked up, and that most of my CDs perform echolalia on the best tracks. I thought the demise of vinyl was supposed to have remediated that? I knew it would be a con, and designed obsolescence in CD 'lasers' is proof.

Anyway, this Sunday's for another trip to the Botanics, targetting the Chinese garden of which I become ever more fond. Word Power bookshop is now also open on Sundays from noon, so a book can be picked upon the way. The Chinese garden is unfortunately sponsored by Pringle Ltd, but if you push this aside it does have a special charm and polyseasonal value.

In the Georgian gallery house at the top of the hill is an exhibition by Keith Farquhar, a local artist whose latest work consists of neon signs in the shape of stylised upside-down fannies, in different colours. Unless I'm seriously mistaken, I met KF during a long night/morning in the Cocteau Lounge and the Penny Black, a fistful of years ago. We talked about Kerouac and Burroughs IIRC, with me reminding him of a viewpoint from Joan Burroughs. But I never, honest, and thus count my blessings that my genitals cannot rationally be represented in his latest work. But there's a couple of images in his Bastards series, viz. the hands with the hash, in which I recognise my mirror self.