This is a bit extreme, and obviously I'm not going to be so obsessive for long - I've just gone out to Costcutters which is all of 30m from my house in Halifax and bought some food. Those of you reading this who've lived in the UK as students and are used to the kind of food I'm buying should recognise the strange mingling of knowing disgust and hungry delight at these foods. 2 bottles of Sunny Delight (insert witty detraction here), a bag of oven chips, fish fingers, southern chicken breasts (for the oven), and a pork pie. Pork pies are lovely. Mmmmmmmmm. I feel disgusting. It's the mixture of coagulated pig fat with the meat and manufactured pastry thats just so very satisfying.
I've been thinking since I started the blog about what Judith was saying about Borges and memory, that a person who remembered absolutely everything would be unable to write stories. Someone who takes an entire day to tell you about a day is contrary to the artistic spirit of representation, of picking and choosing things of significance and meaning in order to convey an idea. I feel as if I'm creating a big hairy monster that will be out of control, that will have only the gleanings of some oblique meaning and form. Again, isn't the way we view the world novelistic in our selectiveness as to what we want to see and how we want to see it?
I wonder about Tim being in MINDEF, and whether he's miserable there. I oscillate between the times of particular nostalgia for the army and the knowledge of my then-delusion.
