#gamesmakerproblems

I am a drone.

A cog in the machine.

I am admired.

Paid only in ill-fitting clothing

in bad-feeling fabric;

I am purple, red and tired.

I am inspiring a generation.

But my feet are uninspired.

This

This is a path laid out before us in a neat trajectory.

This is the thin blue line on which our destiny is written.

This is the closest we come to knowing what happens next.

This is a carriage of cold bright light, come to carry us home.

This is redemption from toil.

This is the way the proletarian rides.

This is a death cab.

This is a Piccadilly Line service to,

Cockfosters.

Deli-rium: The Emperor's New Coffee

We get a lot of of coffee snobs.
Like the woman who came in demanding 'Italian coffee! Italian! It has to be Italian! I only drink Italian! You have no Italian? How can good coffee shop no have Italian? Useless!"
Ridiculous. I mean, they don't even grow coffee beans in Italy. "Italian" usually refers to the brand, or the grind. When informed of this, she went pale and quiet and stormed out.

We get bored of them. We know, after all, that our coffee is the best. But there are always customers that think they know better.

So we decided to get some even better coffee, coffee that they would never have tasted before, or even heard of, although of course, they would never let on.

We called it coffee crystal.
Because it's crystal clear.

But coffee's brown!
No, dear coffee lover. No, not this one.
This, my friend, is the finest, the rarest and most expensive coffee in all the land! Why, haven't you heard of it? Oh, of course you have, yes. You are a coffee lover, after all. Isn't the aroma fantastic! Isn't the taste so rich, so multi-faceted?
And yes, the beans are completely invisible! Incredible, no? And they're hand picked by blind monks, only under the full moon, and only on leap years. That will be £7.60 please.

Of course, there's no such thing. It's just hot water.
But there's no way they'd let on. No way they'd show their own ignorance. They drink their £7.60 hot water and smile and say it's delicious, and tell their friends about it who, of course, already know all about it.

And as soon as they leave the shop we're rolling on the ground laughing, crying big fat tears of crystal coffee.

jezzemiah jebbuhdiahhh

Jeremiah Jebediah went to the beach,
He took a dip in the ocean,
and he emerged with his toe being sucked by leech,
and his friends all gave him a roasting,
(because he had been doing too much boasting)
but they couldn't hate him long cos he's such a peach.

bleach.
beseech,
tried to grab it but couldnt reach!

Jeremiah Jebediah
A sorry tale
shouldn't have gone to the beach.

10 o'clock News

Two young boys drowned and

seventeen throats slit and 

countless other bodies burnt

and bullet-ridden in war-torn lands

draw fourth no tears from me.

A polar bear stranded on melting ice 

seems somehow sadder.

An extreme lapse in empathy.

Has television numbed me into cold

misanthropy? 

Maybe.

Or maybe it's because

only the melting ice is

my fault.

I'm sorry.

What's Your Favourite Colour?

People ask it all the time. It's quite probably in the top ten questions that people ask, in the sub-category of 'questions about individual preference to which the answer is often completely irrelevant to life as a whole, but to which the response gives some kind of character insight, however trite.' What's your favourite animal? What's your lucky number? What's your favourite colour? Questions that we are asked as children, that we learn, as a result, to ask others.

 Of course, knowing someone's favourite colour can be very useful. For present buying, for instance. For knowing which straw to put in which glass of banana milkshake.

I've never had a favourite colour.
Is it something you just pick and stick with? I decided, when I was nine years old, that my lucky number was nine. When I turned ten I quickly realised that to change it according to my age would soon become ludicrous, not to mention very obvious. And I'd grown rather fond of the number nine. So I stuck with it.

Is that how favourite colours work? Do you pick an orange t-shirt out as a favourite at age 4 and then just decide, "orange is my favourite colour for life and I will never like any other colour as much as orange. Unless there isn't anything orange, then red will do."

Whilst this worked for me for my lucky number, this was never something I wanted to ascribe to. I liked all the colours for different reasons, in different ways, for different things. I like the exact red of the door to the grain-shed on my Grandma's farm. I like the colours on pigeons necks. I like the colour of beetroot juice. I like the colour of his eyes, which is somehow green and brown all at once. But saying that, as an 8 year old, would have been a bit much. So when people asked me, I panicked. I picked whatever colour seemed the most appropriate. Red and blue were safe bets. Purple was a bit different, acceptable enough. No one really says green or yellow. Black or white were boring, non-colours. Pink is much too girly; gold is much too showy. I started saying different colours to different people, gauging what I thought would be their favourite.

Then I stopped caring and just explained that I didn't really have a favourite. Or mentioned a colour that I kind of liked at the time. Wine-red. Bottle-green. People don't expect it. They think you're interesting. Or trying too hard to be interesting. Then you know you've beaten the game. Or not played it the way they wanted you too.

Then I decided that enough was enough, and that my favourite colour, once and for all, was turquoise. But now I suddenly like pale greens, anywhere between duck egg and pistachio. Sage green. The green of shutters in the south of France. And I can't tear my eyes off things that fall into that spectrum of light green, and I find myself drawn to pale green pieces of paper and things like that. And now I'm scared that turquoise isn't actually my favourite colour and that I actually prefer these pale greens but I don't know how to define such a specific yet varied range of tones.

Never ask me again.

23 minutes of battery left in Nice airport

Our flight is delayed by over an hour but it's ok because we've got fig rolls, and I bought two books because I couldn't decide which one to buy and now I can't decide which one to read, and I have free wifi but only 23 minutes of battery left on my laptop and probably even less now but I don't want to check because then I'd waste at least 3 second of typing. I ate a fig roll and it wasn't as nice as the figs I had earlier, one of which we bought from a farm shop and was a rich deep ruby red like biting into a small animal and eating its guts except it tasted lovely and sweet. The other fig was picked by my dad on a mountainside when we went on a walk and the walk was much longer than he anticipated and it was hot and he got grumpy, but the fig cheered him up even though it was slightly green and not quite ripe enough. Then we found a large cactus that was covered in prickly pears, and my dad loves prickly pears because they remind him of his childhood (or was that the smell of pine and gum trees on the hot air?) but we didn't want to pick them because we didn't want the prickles to get stuck in our fingers. So we took some twigs that may or may not have been poisonous but we didn't care that much, and we poked them right through the prickly pears and carried them down to the beach on the sticks as though they were ice-lollies, except that it wouldn't be very pleasant to lick one. Then we swam in the sea and dad left his phone in his pocket and it got wet, and we packed up and got on a train and watched Théoule drift away into the distance and it was a bit sad but we'd eaten the prickly pears and they were nice.

The fig rolls didn't taste nice because I sprayed too much perfume on in duty free so they taste more like violetty poisonnous rolls than fig rolls. I'm tired where's our plane?