I am not musical. I am not artistic, in the sense that any pictorial depiction is in essence a stick with a circle for a head (insert Manic Mailman quote for cultural reference purposes. Heh. Ghost Mutt). I used to be able to write, or at least I used to think I could, but for a matter of months (years), anything I am able to scrawl on paper is worthless. I’m pretty sure it has always been worthless. I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey last night, for the first time. Half of it. I had finished watching Jackass Presents: Bad Grandpa (for the first time, which I had laughed at) and had clicked through the channels to find 2001: A Space Odyssey on BBC2. I love Kubrick but had never seen this. I don’t know what this says about me. I have come into town and am sat writing this. In a cafe. Expectation was: wake up at an appropriate time, vacate the house in a manner denoting enthusiasm, read (scheduled) book on the attractive shores of Derby’s riverside, have lunch without lungs imploding, buy 2001: A Space Odyssey so I can watch the first half which I imagine is just as important as the second half, then get a haircut at 1400. Reality is: woke up and was not convinced that waking up was purposeful, felt sick about leaving the house, watched The Musketeers and felt better, left the house too late to enjoy the grim crust floating along the Derwent, couldn’t find 2001: A Space Odyssey, instead purchased a coffee and sat with my notepad in a cafe in an ironic cycle of self-loathing no-one should want to hear.