Wednesday 9 July
Mimi Pixel, my inspirational friend and comrade in the literary trenches of Manchester (sandbags stuffed full of rejected manuscripts) is off to London, armed with her dangerous first book, I Don’t Need Your Money to Bring Up My Boy Lord Archibald. Guaranteed to inflame the ultra-conservative and ultra-liberal crowds alike, especially if the puppet show adaptation goes ahead, I look forward to seeing both groups toasted; such bigots a modern (wo)man can do without.
Yet for all the shared excitement, the inevitable trips darn south, life here sans Mimi will be strange. To lose a friend from Manchester is unfortunate but not uncommon; to lose a friend from Manchester is like a red brick being looted from the very warehouse of one’s soul. My carrier finds hers in confrontational mood tonight. Mimi will be leaving with quill sharpened, ready to take on love and life. And while I may be tempted to join her, brandishing my stubby pencil amidst sundry southerners, I cannot flee Manchester for reasons less valiant than hers. I must stick it out until I too get the call – first finishing the Hatbox Project, then this mechanical journal; signing off my latest Dickensian/headian manuscript before ridding Manchester of those who would spread misery & mischief instead of love & head massages. Suddenly I need a lie down.
Seeming seconds later Sanchez is pecking me awake, a tiny silver banana protruding from his side-feathers. And thus the flying monkeys do return. A greasy caff of your choice, dear Mimi, should I survive the work at hand.