the neighbours…

… are having another party. This one’s different. No Bob Marley. No kizomba. It’s all English disco music, with some house and trance thrown in. Our whole house is vibrating. Everything is buzzing on my desk – paper, post-its, camera, spectacle-case, wires, mic, headphones, air-con control – and I keep thinking about the budgies. The yellow ones in the cage. Actually one of them is a rather unattractive turquoise blue and white, suited for a part in an Ajax advert. I could easily be in Hackney right now. I close my eyes and don’t believe this is thousands of miles away in the middle of the bottom half of Africa. This is Hackney in the summer. Anyway, there’s no point me staying in and banging my head against a brick wall as I struggle to dissect my obsession with doublethink (it’s starting to make sense). I’m going out too, to a bar with the rather unfortunate name, Miami Beach. I used to think it was a place for prostitutes but apparently it’s elevated its image a bit. It’s owned by the president’s daughter, Isabel. Not sure why I’m telling you that. Is it relevant? Perhaps not. Never quite sure how happy I feel about dropping pennies into her pocket, but I guess it all comes out in the wash in the end. If not her, someone other business tycoon. And anyway, it’s only money.

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