Night Soil

I had held my ability to string three blog posts together in doubt. But here I am. Since I last wrote I have been on a dubious research trip to the dog track in Yarmouth and embarked on an Ebay selling career that I am hoping will keep me fed in my dotage. The visit to Yarmouth was meant to be some sort of ironic treat but I couldn’t help feeling that I was being presented with an image of the future. Our B&B (for I was, as usual, travelling with Miss Dover) was sited diagonally opposite to a grand and characterful building which still bore the signs of having been the town’s Art College. Now it was: boarded up, surrounded by chainlink fence and litter, awaiting new life as rented accommodation. The town itself looked like a very poor man’s Blackpool being largely abandoned apart from the odd dog walker and even odder jogger. The latter looked as if he were running away rather than to. It was cold, bloody cold. Actually it was colder than that but my mother may be reading. We were visiting the dog track to see if I could find any interesting men to film. I am still looking to follow up my film of the bingo caller, and have still not followed up my desire to record a Blackpool tower organinst in action. Twenty minutes into the meet I reaffirmed what I already knew, that I am not cut out to be a documentary film maker. I found myself too shy to take my camera from its hiding place and, although the bookies looked a very fitting subject, ended up eating chips and watching the dogs parade, shit and run. It was quite good. Now back in the warmth I am attempting to sell bits of bicycles and a series of strange objects found in Annabel’s dead aunt’s house. I should be catching up with things for The Count of Monte Cristo.