A Bristol Novella

I'm drinking some disgusting cocktail that they make in the slums of Rio. Whilst watching over weight, rouged, topless Bristolians as they watch their children playing in fountains at Millennium Square. And I'm thinking of the oxidisation of the bearings in the wheels of a small boys scooter, and I feel sick. And someone talks to me in Spanish, and I don't really understand, and my phone rings. And after I click off I recall the conversation in my head, and decide that an VIP invitation to a gig, even if it will be shit, must be accepted.

And several Bloody Mary's later, I'm at the gig, and as I thought, it's shit.

And to avoid problems like this, and because I'm feeling a little melancholy and angry at myself, because I can only sleep between the hours of 2am and 5am, I have decided that, despite the sun, today I am staying inside. Pale and English a classic combination.

So I'm watching re-runs of Grand Designs on More4, only I'm not, and calculating how many days I have left in this fucking city, and its only 547.5. And that number makes me quite happy, and I wonder what I'll be doing on that half of a day.

Five hundred and fourth seven point five.