September has been the first month of the rest of my life, as my most recent relationship foundered on the rocks of discontent... there has been a lot of drinking of alcohol and smoking of cigarettes, both of which are conducive to exacerbating an air of being hard done by.
However, there is nothing like adversity to fire the neurons, and as well as getting back on it with my blogs and other items of keyboard-related venting, I have of course been cycling throughout - I can't not cycle, it's a joyful thing. As exercise, as pursuit for amplifying the happiness and diminishing the perceived importance of negative feelings relative to their counterweight.
It's also the only way to get around London. Cabs have their merits, but a tenner to get from Holborn Circus to the Hope & Anchor on Upper Street, as I did last night, is steep enough to set even Nepalese mountain goats a-bleating. I don't mind buses - they're cheap, yet correspondingly slow and generally a source of annoying and unnecessary noises to pierce the hangover still [an alarm for every function on the bus, presumably to avoid lawsuits brought by people who were unaware that buses move and then stop, doors open, etc]; the Tube is a complete marvel - those malcontents who suggest that the Tube's crap because their train happened to be a bit late might want to try and coordinate the mass migration of 3 million people across 12 separate lines for 17 hours a day [275 stations, etc etc etc, and welcome to the Information Age, by the way, how long might this kind of supporting material have taken to find pre-Interweb? It almost mitigates the lack of silver foil jumpsuits and floating cars] and see how well they manage it - HOWEVER it's underground, too expensive and full of people shoehorning themselves into preposterously small spaces because they HAVE TO get this train and can't wait the three minutes for the next one. [Face jammed up against window, possibly the face of Martin Short for optimum comic effect]
Which set of obvious observations on the Commute leads me back in a neat rhetorical wheel to the cycle, my saviour and means of locomotion, the runabout that facilitates me leaving the now bachelor pad at 8.20 am and arriving at work just off Fleet Street after a thrilling whizz through Barnsbury, Amwell St, Farringdon Road etc, at 8.40 am. And not a penny squandered. Except on the ciggies & drink. Well, it's all about balance, eh? I guess I can justify the aled up ['And now I feel soiled...'] Mississippi Fried Chicken £4.95 Bargain Bucket, to myself at least, with forty minutes of the Lance Armstrong Plan every day.
Reading matter this week has been Identity Crisis, which is a crime thriller/examination of relationships and what they lead people into, only with comic book superbeings displaying ambiguous and unheroic traits, beautifully drawn; I'm still finding my way through Matthieu Ricard's book on training the mind, Happiness. Comics are, like the drink, short cuts I guess, but then so is music, and as I write this there's a riot goin on and you can't say fairer than that.
So THAT's what's going on.