It is horrid being ill, and very seldom happens. I get the occasional migraine, but gastric wogs have seldom afflicted me. I don't know what brought it on. Resisting the temptation to broadcast into the ether how great and prolonged were my sufferings, and to vividly describe them in exhaustive detail, I merely and pathetically say that today I might try to nibble on a piece of fruit, and will drink a lot of mineral water. Last night I cautiously had a small slice of toast.
Last night I could not even stay up until the end of the match between Federer and Tsonga. It is not as though I am a mad sporting fan, in fact mostly I turn it off and bury my head in a book with glorious music (not rock, pop or jazz, resounding throughout the house. But tennis is worth watching. Once all the yobbos went away, the crowds were pretty well-mannered, and so they should be.
During the daytime, while watching the tennis, I have been joining squares for the latest blanket. Its completion has been impeded by my running out of white wool. The shop had also run out. I needed enough to complete one square. The other squares have all been spread over the carpet, with this solitary gap. I went to the shop this morning and found one ball. I hope it will do.
Life is pretty boring when you are ill. I ventured quietly out for a short walk and discovered that the graffiti has not yet been removed, but has instead been augmented. Bastards. I'd like to whip their naked parts with blackberry canes. I loathe such anti-social behaviour and that it evidently springs from a belief that the mindless and anti-social desires of the perpetrators are far more important than the public good, and outweigh any other considerations of respect, good behaviour and public welfare.
The papers are reporting on the death of a graffitist, who, with his partners in crime, was spraying a newly painted wall alongside a rail track. These young men saw that the wall had been freshly painted, and decided to go out at night and spray it. None of them heard the approaching train, and this man was killed. In fact, sliced in two. There is a part of me that thinks 'Serves him right'. I am ashamed to even contemplate such a reaction. How must his family feel, I wonder, about this pointless and foolish loss?
It is not art, it is vandalism. And it can lead to tragedy.