National Service

Another sleepless night has made me think twice about staying in my beautiful Ipswich flat. Staggering groups of screeching women serenaded me during the drowsy hours between midnight and four by which time the seagulls took up their sweet roundelay. I slept at seven until the bells of St Ignatius called it's worshippers (and myself) to mass. The day has followed in something of a fog and all I have achieved is a little light hoovering, a crossword (which I had to cheat at to finish) and some under the breath grumbling. I need to get back on top of things. Starting tomorrow I must email B about my diy nightmare buildings. Post some films to Hackney for some sort of evening of surveillance and get together some video samples for a curator in Leeds. On top of this I need to find two large lampshades and make an arts council application for One Million pounds. I pray for a quiet night but as I write a crowd of young men are setting out on their night's revelry singing "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday." they are literally chorusing as they do not seem to know the verse.