The Diary of Lunatic Book Seller

My latest entry in my diary, for other entries please click the archives link at the bottom

04/05/2008 14:04:02   New for 2008 - A Dull Life

Sunday again. I’ve not sat down to blog for so long that it’d take several hours to reconstruct what has happened over the past 4 months or whatever it is now. I seem to be busier than ever and more shagged out than ever, despite having shed all my stock to Sir O back in August last. I think it took me 4 or 5 months of solid afternoons to write the Inventory, which finished at 200,000 words and 352 pages of closely typed A4. It seems an age ago now, but then, as soon as I’d finished it to my OWN satisfaction, I immediately embarked on writing a catalogue of books from my own libraries that’s taken a couple of months and awaits printing : 112pp of A4 – which equates to roughly 200pp of A5, the longest catalogue I’ve ever written and 60,000 words. About 1,000 books taken from my own shelves and an eclectic mix of tripe and ‘good’ stuff. Even photographs by Bob Gruen. Just about everything lying around unread or likely to just clog this place up til I die. I must post it out and SOON.
Then, Bookdealer. I turned in my 11 page article about Woolf and Bloomsbury, “Long Time Man”, and Mike now wants me to write regularly for that august magazine. I am no writer or essayist but it’s fun and agreeable on a wet day to sit down and churn out 2,000 words on any subject I like – an open brief, so long as I occasionally mention the word ‘book’. My trouble is that I am never, ever satisfied with my own writings and have already been through 20 drafts on “The Love of Books” and several articles need touching up still.
Then Cecil says he’d like something from my pen about Bloomsbury for his ‘Bloomsbury Heritage’ series. Lord ! What can I write ??? A Monograph about “Virginia Woolf and Smoking” ???
So, six months of solid writing really. I should’ve refused all requests but I was too flattered to resist. And even bought a 3rd laptop to accommodate ...... too long an explanation and too boring to write about. Also, of course, there’s the business of re-stocking. I don’t need to – I can live off the interest on my capital quite adequately, but I’m NOT quitting because I love what I do. It’s nice being able to buy selectively and it has to be said that much, much excellent material has fallen into my hands as if it was raining good books. Snaffled two books hand-bound by Virginia Woolf for Quentin Bell after sending Joan along to bid for me on a commission basis. You can trust Joan, she’s an expert bidder, and worth the measly £ 200 I paid her. Boy, there really ARE too many good purchases to list.
The Premium Bonds Office must know me by name by now as I’ve already won 7 (now 10) times in 2008 and I’ve lost count of the total winnings. The envelopes are recognisable and, my nerves being shot, I hand them to my Mother to open for me. Any sort of shock, good or bad, I can’t endure, so always get someone else to open or simply rip them up unopened.
Had a day trip to Dublin recently, but can’t recall much apart from miles of airport corridors and a few drinks in an Irish pub. As a day trip, you can’t beat driving to Gatwick, flying to Dublin for 2 hours and flying back and being home again all inside 12 hours of getting up.
Charleston next month. Screwed again to sponsor an event at the Festival, at least I blagged 7 free tickets for me, Vanessa and her entourage. But it’s a noon kick-off which means I’ll be pissed by 1 p.m. and falling asleep in that marquee...
Bought another painting last week. Viky advised me on that one, and Shani Rhys James is really gathering a following. Got the exhibition catalogue and within 20 minutes had spent £ 5,000 on a small oil. I have no room for a larger piece, but am thrilled at buying ANY painting by Shani.
It’s been a shit year for health stuff. The optician wrote to my doctor saying he suspects I have Glaucoma, which runs in the family but has never started so young. So, a brace of hospital consultations. And damaged optical nerves and the admittedly small possibility of going blind is my own fault for leering at so many females for so many years.
Then the blood pressure reading. 24 hours hooked up to a portable monitor showed results so bad it’s a wonder I haven’t exploded. Diastolic persistently in 3 figures even after the pills, and reaching 173/143 at one point when I was doing nothing more strenuous than scratching my ass reading my e-mails. Wonderful. MORE drugs.
The Pain Consultant has switched me from Morphine at 320mg a day to Oxycodone at some as yet to be specified dose. Oxy is mg for mg the same strength as heroin, orally, and costs a bloody fortune to prescribe, but I refuse to carry on suffering the appalling nightmares I have on Morphine. I just hope the Oxy works – I know it has a bad press in America as “hillbilly heroin”, with thousands of rednecks preferring it to heroin. One can only try.
Not forgetting the two in-grown toenails operated on in February which as yet haven’t begun to heal. Took pictures throughout the gig, naturally. They are still excruciatingly painful and cost hundreds of pounds to have sliced up and what reward do I get for going private ? A body that won’t heal itself.
There’s always a NICE surprise though, at SOME point, and I was astonished to be caught on the crapper on Valentine’s Day when the florist delivered white roses – to ME !!! From whom, I have NO idea, even now. And cards too !! And then the lovely Dayna gave me a beautiful black leather man-bag by Paul Smith which I know cost a bloody fortune and which is getting full use as my portable medicine chest. That was extremely sweet and generous of her and I feel rather ashamed that all SHE got from me was an Aspinal journal and a limited edition book. NB – I have NO clue who the card or flowers were from...
I’m sure other stuff must have happened but I’m astonished to find a week has passed since starting that last paragraph. Bought some good books including a complete set of Johnson’s Works in the Yale Edition for a customer. Finding I have access to MORE sets, I must have one myself. Also scored a rare Dublin Edition of a Johnson work and a complete set of The Spectator from 1718, some Shelley items and inevitably the usual glut of Woolf 1sts. But work ? What’s that ? I’m not working, unless you call publishing another catalogue ‘working’.
Had a massage last week. It’s about the only female PHYSICAL contact I’ve had in ages. Bloody good though and my neck and shoulder gave up and returned to their rightful places. Same again this week, and all for 15 quid.
Won another 3 Premium Bond prizes. Fuck knows how many that is now. I’m constantly surprised when I ask for a balance at the bank. It’s always far more than I THINK I have.
Sunday, anyway. I’m mighty disappointed by the latest Stones live CD “Shine A Light”. It’s crap. I’ve already ripped the 2nd CD off the CD player in disgust and replaced it with “Sticky Fingers”, a CD you can trust.
I’m reminded of Sir O’s article in Bookdealer about his buying my stock. Apparently he could see I wasn’t in the best of health and unable to carry on my ‘Life’s Work’. I don’t know whether that’s strictly true but what IS true is that I’m fucked every morning and a funny colour to boot. Dragging my carcass from bed to shower is fast becoming the worst part of the day. My lungs are falling out and my heart racing as I strike my first smoke up each day. That habit and trying to reverse the sheer damage I’ve caused my body at the Gym will kill me. Maybe Sir O saw me pouching my endless pills. I don’t recall taking anything but these days I swallow Morphine like Smarties without thinking. Next week it’s off to get the script for Oxy. The Morphine nightmares are unbearable. But at the dose I’m on, not unexpected. Mix with 15 or 16 other medications a day, small wonder.
Nope. I can’t think of anything else that’s happened. I’m gonna grab me a guitar off the landing where the cases are stacked like a coal heap, and have a strum.
Sunday again. The Oxy earns its street name as “Killers”. Took some and could feel my breathing diminish and that ‘near-death’ feeling. In fact, two nights ago I was CONVINCED I was going to die in my sleep and couldn’t let myself deprive the female sex of myself so sat up slapping myself around, then walking around the house, until 4 a.m. when I decided that death was infinitely preferable to not getting any sleep at all. And woke feeling like shite, of course.
Mikey’s coming down Tuesday from his shithole in Blackheath, so that’ll be a skive to look forward to – not that I ever need an excuse to stop ‘work’. He’d best bring his wallet as I’ve letters by Woolf, Vita, Ottoline, Forster and Gertler to sell him at a humungous profit.
Nothing much happened this week apart from writing and submitting 2 articles to Bookdealer that I couldn’t even recall writing 12 hours later, being heavily sedated. Still, Mike thought they were brilliant and “doesn’t know how I do it”. Mike – in my sleep – that’s how. At least it appears that way.
Shirt off again. It might be overcast but I’m raging hot even with the air-conditioning at zero or 10 degrees minus. Man, it is NOT a pretty sight. My vodka gut won’t shift but I’m still the same size as I was 5 years ago, judging by my suit trousers. Which reminds me I need to e-mail my tailor and get those Thais working in their sweatshop for 3 cents a day knocking up suits and cloaks and shirts and anything else I can think up. I might not need any more clothes but if I’m to win ‘Consumer of the Year’ I must squander a few grand more before some asshole charity screws me for it. Which reminds me that the Big Issue Seller did very well out of me last week. Twenty quid for a poxy rag instead of 30 shillings.
My uncle died earlier this month. Not that I was ever close. And that’s really about all, I think.
No, I’m wrong. I rang Viky for a chat this week – 2 hours 40 minutes to New Zealand and I got to speak to all the crew including Jen and Radford and Steve. Raddy’s sent me THE most excellent e-mail thanking me for standing him “Scooby new shoes” after the old ones rotted on his feet. It was a joke but well-intentioned. Cash in an envelope and Viky dragged him to the mall and sprang the money on him. I have photos of his Scooby new shoes too.
I am soooooo overwhelmed by my friends at times. I can’t bring myself to hate – it’s too effortful and stressful, yet people can be such pigs. I bless them all. And miss them in many cases – the ones who fell off their perches. Shut up Paul, you’ll be bursting out with “Rainy Night In Soho” if you don’t watch yourself. But it IS very true that “You can’t put your arms around a memory”. Mmmm.
It is time for more Oxy. Which means I’d better shut this laptop and prepare myself for the rush of analgesia to hit me like a brick. No half-measures. It makes Morphine seem like aspirin.
Emma rang yesterday from Japan – an HOUR from her mobile phone. I was absolutely thrilled. She only wanted to talk to me which is as well as everyone else was out. Had a really good natter and I learn she’s coming back for my birthday in September and staying 3 months. Just spent £ 27 on chocolate and cheese to send her – fucking post will be more, but shit, what’s new ?
It’s taken me 8 months to actually realise what Mike B said to me about “no-one EVER sells all their stock to ONE customer, it just doesn’t happen” is true. I can’t believe how jammy I’ve been, but having faith in one’s own abilities DOES pay off. It just does NOT happen in this trade – nigh on 4,000 books and items of art and ephemera in ONE hit. It’s not luck, either – it’s perseverance. But having no-one to really share my luck with is a bit of a downer. And I prefer sharing and giving. And likewise there are many ‘takers’. Right on cue Die Toten Hosen’s “All For The Sake Of Love” starts playing – and destroys THAT thought in one strike. [deleted].
Later.
Friday 2nd May. Saw the doctor this morning to discuss the Oxy. He’s increased the dose and told me to find my own level of tolerance. I’m getting used to being poleaxed by the pills although the nightmares are still making life a misery. The pain relief is good but has me retching still – not surprising really, considering the strength. I must persist but don’t want nightmares every fucking night. Always about family and friends dying on me. Last night some odd ‘game show’ where everyone dies and it’s mandatory to play. Shit, forget it.
The doctor says my toenails need removing. He’s too squeamish to do it himself so the regular doctor’s going to shoot me up and wrench the fucking nails off with pliers and I shall sit crying with pain for 18 months. Great. I look forward to it. And shall film it again.
Antibiotics for the possibility of a cold/flu – again. Within 18 hours of coming into contact with a ‘carrier’, I’m taking NO chances and hope to nip any incipient chest infection in the bud.
Part of the reason for coping antibiotics is because today I received an e-mail from Steve Harley’s PA saying “what’s your address ? We can’t find it” and “Steve has a package to send you”. Likewise I have a package to send HIM, so copped their address. I have been offered Guest Tickets for Southampton’s gig on 21st May and must find someone who’d like to transport me there, book a hotel and cancel appointments on 22nd May. It’s the NEAREST gig Steve’s playing and I don’t miss a Steve Harley gig even if I have to spend £ 200 on taxis and £ 500 on a hotel for the night. He is, literally, the ONLY ‘act’ I will cross the road to see and I’m NOT missing a gig this year. Met him in December, 2006 backstage and I’m surprised he recalls me at all. This isn’t hero-worship but just the fact most musicians have hectic lives and I wouldn’t expect anyone to remember me after 17 months. Who can I impose on to drive me there ? It’s 60 or so miles, I no longer CAN drive without fear of a gaol term, and I need a complete looker on my arm. I know a few, but they’re married or attached, although I can easily fool a husband into loaning me his wife for 24 hours, being an innocuous – ha-ha-ha – guy. Well, it’s a problem, but not insurmountable. And realistically, I prefer being accountable to no-one and there’s not a woman alive who’d want to accompany me, that I can think of. Why a woman, anyway ? I have enough male friends. It hinges on who can drive. Or else it’s a fucking train, which I loathe. But I’m not missing a freebie. It’ll be something like the 18th time I’ve seen Steve perform – and he never disappoints.
Blah ! Sunday AGAIN. I loathe Sundays and bank Holidays. There’s virtually nothing to do and I am bored rigid. To the extent I can’t even be bothered to ‘tidy up’ my nature reserve of an Office or my bookroom, which looks as if a bomb has gone off in there. My inspiration too, has fled. I can’t even be arsed to shave. And there’s no reason why I should, really. I have no-one to impress. So. Must find a mind-numbingly boring job to do and FORCE myself to get on with it. What a waste of life.
Enough. I’m not writing on a Sunday ever again.
4th May, 2008.