It's been a long time since I've even had the inclination to write in this journal. It's strange, I almost couldn't stop writing in it at once point. I've not got the internet in the new flat either, so I guess that doesn't help. I've been doing many strange and wonderful things in London for the past 3 weeks but I can't remember what most of them are now. Interesting antidotes are so hard to remember when you're under pressure. I'm in the library wishing that I could be somewhere having fun or drinks or sitting in a cafe reading or watching a french film in bed and not understanding it or walking through a park and hoping not to be mugged or sitting on the crowded tube reading the london paper and knowing I don't have to get off for the next five stops. All of those things are preferable to what I'm doing now.
I'm reading Hawksmoor by Peter Ackroyd at the minute. Something about the disassociation of English sensibilities and religion and cults and the plague with a little bit of the Enlightenment thrown in for good measure. I'm still not completely sure what the book is about but I'll keep on going until I do. There's a little bookshop in Camden that I can't keep away from - I can't remember the name but it's on the opposite side of the lock from Lloyds - and I've been there so many times recently the older gentleman who works there has started giving me a bit of a discount. I would love to marry a book-shop owner - what heaven to do nothing but read old (and new) books all day and be paid for it.