Oh damn, still in this dream.

This evening I went to SWMBO offices where there was a talk on Faberge by Geoffrey Munn. Various nobs and important folk were there, and Mr Munn himself was pretty illuminating on the subjects of lapidary stuff and the languages of stones and flowers. We spoke for a bit and I found out that he had known of one of my godfathers, who by chance had also known the Queen Mum (RIP). Nice chap, as it happens, though I hadn't known of him from his appearances on the Antiques Roadshow. I mingled with the various lords and ladies and the odd oligarch or twain, before the wife and I took a cab back to the depths of East Dulwich. Apparently I'm a 'social asset', being rather well connected and prepared to talk to anyone.

And still I'm too damn commie for all of this. Even Mr Munn opined that the massive inequalities of the late Victorian and Edwardian period were the basis of Faberge and Cartier's ability to produce such high-value objects of craft and art, and was content that such times had passed. These days Imperial Faberge Eggs are valued at some £20M and rising: which is some Easter gift. Though I might just covet a Faberge cigarette case to put my spliffs in, I doubt whether either I or Madame could afford such a luxury: and even if I could, I doubt that I'd ever spend quite so much on an item quite so trivial, especially when there are starving children, if not on my doorstep, then not more than a couple of thousand miles away.

Luxuria was originally one of the seven deadly sins. What happened to change this?

Tuesday evening I rehearsed with the function band prior to our gig on Friday night. This had been rescheduled from Sunday evening. It was irritating because I'd been offered a freebie to go and see Spurs play Arsenal in the Carling Cup, but I hadn't picked up a guitar in three weeks so....
Anyway the boss had booked us in at a place called Arch Studios.

www.archstudios.co.uk/Location.html

I got there early ('cause I'm like that) only to find the Rehearsal Studio was full of those plug-in perfume dispensers that cause my asthma to start. It was so pervasive and strong I ran out of the door and coughed my lungs up and almost had to go home. Eventually they found one room without the aforementioned lung destroyers which I think must be much worse for people than tobacco smoke, but alas against which there is no legislation. I am reminded of Pubs that have replaced tobacco smoke with candle fumes: candle smoke, to my mind is at least as bad on the lungs, if not worse than tobacco smoke: but that could just be the nature of my particular allergies. I have no problems with tobacco whatsoever.

Yesterday we saw nine houses, one of which is a good possible. More research needed.

Also yesterday our Estate Agents showed a prospective buyer around our house.

The prospective buyer left muddy footprints on our upstairs carpet and left a greasy residue on the dining room dresser. Oh joy. Madame was just this side of furious. Then to cap it all, we found out that our house had been put up on the Estate Agent's website at what the Agent had called the pre-marketing price: which was not according to the agreement SWMBO had signed.

Madame's joy knew no bounds, as you can imagine. Oh well, such things are sent to try us.

These last few weeks I've been a chauffeur.

Barring yesterday I've been driving a friend to hospital every morning for her radiotherapy.

On Friday I went to my hairdresser to get a haircut. Whilst trimming the old Ninefingers' scalp the chap that does noticed that a lump on the back of my head occasioned by an old Rugby injury from my dim-and-distant schooldays some thirty+ years ago had somehow got bigger. He advised me to see a quack about it.

Appointment booked for Thursday afternoon. Hope it's nothing serious, or if it is it will be quick and to the point. Though I do good languishing I'm sure I'd make a poor patient.

So many sins, so little time....

Go well and do good things.

Since my Ma's neighbour has started her radiotherapy I've been booked as her driver to get her to and from the hospital. Early mornings aren't really my thang, but needs must, as the saying is. This is the beauty of being a do-gooding layabout: my sore travails are as nothing compared to the stuff other people are going through. It takes me twenty minutes to drive to the mother's, and another half-an-hour from there to the Royal Marsden.

I note that the Marsden has changed for the better since I was there last with the old man some four years ago.

As a final note, through Mother's letterbox this morning came a tax refund from the IR. It was addressed to me as the executor of Dad's estate. The IR finally closed Dad's case only some four years after he died. I shall not dwell on the efficiency, or lack thereof, of the bureaucracy, but the timing was just one of those co-incidental things to unsettle a bod.