NOTHING MATTERS

My week has been littered with nuns and gynaecologists, socialists and cigarette lighters, gypsies and dead swallows and now Hazel Blears looms everywhere.I look and I wonder who she will be partnered with shortly. Perhaps that should read Hazel blears......

The nuns, all three of them sat next to me while I was waiting to see a neurologist on the advice of the gynaecological department ( don't ask ) and Henderson was fascinated with them and kept making glib comments on why they might be here. The neurologist couldn't find anything wrong with me which makes a change as everytime I see a doctor they find something else on a growing list of ailments that I could do without.

The elections are blearing and one of the local councillors came running up to us in the park the other day asking us if we smoked and offered us lighters. This seemed to be the way to open up a debate on local politics and I think he was delighted to have a sensible conversation for once. He seemed impressed that I knew the name of the Secretary of State for Infrastructure but then why wouldn't I? I forgot to ask why the council had promised the pedestrianisation of my barrio but it has probably got ot a lot to with all the other lies politicians tell when an election blears......

A dead swallow lay in our street the other day and dead birds especially baby ones have a morbid effect on me as my father bred birds and when I first saw a dead chick it left me feeling probably the same way Luis Bunuel did when he first saw a dead animal although his was a donkey I believe so I guess it was a more traumatic experience for him. A gypsy kid asked me what I was looking at and when I told her it was a dead pajaro she didn't seem to understand me so the inevitable conversation of 'pajaro?', 'si, un pajaro' went on for minutes. A friend later told me it has something to do with the pronunciation of this word but not on my part apparently. Despite the noise, I must confess that out street does lend itself to the more interesting aspects of Spanish Life and I often feel I have slipped back in time. There is a gypsy who walks up and down playing an instrument that has a whistling sound. I found out he sharpens knives for a living and wondered if he could be transported to London and stand outside the Houses of Parliament.

Tomorrow is the film festival and my source seems to have gone underground but I shall seek him/her out shortly and find out the goings on in the world of short film makers. Boom boom.