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and to think. . .


Tuesday July 28th, cool sun and cloud, strong breeze

And to think, six months ago I was convinced that by the summer, at the very latest, I would be safely back in those halcyon days of the lost past, when I could spend my time being a writer; even indulge in the hours of critical reading, writing, listening, thinking, and speculation that trickle down, eventually into an essay or an article for my own archives. Fat chance. Today it's a break of sorts, bullying my tax docs into submission : first the neat and docketed parts, then at last, reluctantly, the woeful heap of crumpled old bus tickets that represent out of pocket miscellaneous expenses, (which we have to be ready to produce, you know) and here is laid bare the staggering amount of time I have spent on trains since last December, not to mention the miserable things I have had to eat on said trains (seem to be a few beers here as well, but I couldn't call that a consolation). The endless Americanos. That smoked ham sandwich and "Florida Orange Juice" from M&S food manchester piccadilly, probably the nadir of dining experiences. Ah, the almond croissants at Pumpkin, East Croydon (a rare non-Manchester related jaunt). They were nice.

Oooh, a ten pound note!

I shouldn't complain, it's no worse than having a job, I'm sure (as opposed to being a feckless artist). And last week, a genuine break, reading Helen Merrick's "Secret Feminist Cabal" story. Really fresh, interesting take on the whole phenomenon of women/feminist sf/feminism in the sf community: light on literary criticism, academic jargon, long on piecing together what happened, when it happened, and who did what to whom. Segues from chapters of what's frankly vintage tasty gossip (what else is history?), into analytical discussion, and settles on the place of science in feminist sf as a final topic. An aspect of the endeavour that usually goes right by feminist theorists who get interested in fem-sf, & it's a shame. Science isn't only a metaphor, or a decor, or a crude means of smuggling utopia into adventure fantasy. There are women (me for one) who write sf not to make a feminist point, that's necessity, not preference. But because they are interested in science, just the way a bloke might be.

No use, time's a wasting, tomorrow I'm back on the train, now for the triage operation on these scraps

The photo is a view from Greenwich Park. The poppy field and my office are on their holidays, wish I was.

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