Dancing to Lou Reed at Below Zero Temperatures

As if getting copies of the latest version of my work to be published in South Korea had not delivered enough pleasant astonishment for one day, Surreal Girl announced I was to be given a ‘surprise’. Beyond being told it was a ‘treat’, being given a precise time (‘4:05pm’) and a maddeningly wide location (‘Piccadilly Circus’), no more information was forthcoming. This was typical of her modus operandi – enchantingly infuriating.

After struggling to buy two extra roasting tins in Little Lebanon as daylight faded, I was reduced to making secret signs with my magic fingers to conjure a black cab. The Powers of the city smiled on me and a carriage with the welcome orange light appeared within moments. After a seat sliding hurtle through the West End, the destination was reached with two minutes to spare.

The ‘surprise’ was vodka cocktails at the ice bar on Heddon Street. For the next 45 minutes I was bundled into a quilted cape and gloves so I could drink cinnamon infused Absolut in a minus five degree environment. Everything inside the bar – walls, benches, artwork, glasses – was made of ice. When I moved through the airlock into the cold, I felt as if I was entering Hannibal Chew’s workshop from Blade Runner. I half-expected the fur hat wearing bartender to say: “You Nexus, huh? I design your eyes.”

As a theme bar, it should have been awful, but it was glorious. I could not help but smiling with childlike glee at speakers and lights recessed behind walls of frozen water, the lusciously vibrant colours of the cocktails and the sight of Surreal Girl dressed like a Siberian Yupik. I loved dancing to Lou Reed at below zero temperatures. My feet may have been frozen, but my cynicism was meltwater.

Afterwards we weaved through the extravagant streets of Mayfair. Shop windows too beautiful and expensive to look in, twinkling lights clustered into the shapes of giant angels. Our toes thawed out as we moved under the invading empire shadow of the Grosvenor Square fortress. Crossing Park Lane’s flowing river of headlights, we hit Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland.

It was hard to tell if the Ferris wheel centrepiece was meant to be lit like a snowflake of star, but that did not really matter. As it rotated, its blue LED light was a beacon for wonder. With a box of freshly cooked cinnamon pancakes and cups of Glühwein to keep our hands warm, we watched the ice skaters. Around us children ran amok with just purchased fluorescent lightsabres, high on too many caramelised nuts and too much pre-big day excitement. There was no snow, no carols, but at that moment, the romance of Christmas danced among the fairy lights and smiles.

Conspiracy Theories – Special Edition

It might be down to the fact I rarely get more than three hours of sleep, but I am not a morning person. Others may bounce with Tigger cheer just after dawn, but I struggle to glue myself together before 9am. While I am often awake to hear the early morning quarrels of the geese outside and the chug-chug-chug of a passing canal boat add to a soundscape dominated by John Humphrys’ acerbic scorn, everything is muffled. It all seems to be happening in a dimension I am aware of, but not part of. Before my second cup of tea, the bundles of neurons that make up my white matter seem insulated not with myelin, but cotton wool.

Therefore when shouts went up that the post had brought a parcel from Seoul, I did not leap from my bed to shred brown paper and cardboard. At that point I only vaguely knew my name was David Southwell. It took at least another 15 minutes to remember I was occasionally an author and the package on the kitchen table was probably the latest edition of Conspiracy Theories to come out in South Korea. At this point, I began moving from bed to kitchen at Flash speed.

At every step of the process, I have been impressed by my Korean publisher Imago. Less than three weeks ago I emailed over an exclusive new preface for this book and now, with shimmering timing, they had delivered two copies into my hands making for a wonderful Christmas Eve gift. Beyond creating copies of the book at a pace even the Scarlet Speedster would approve of, Imago have delighted me with their design and quality standards. The new Imago version comes in at more than 550 pages, has better use of photographs and the luxury of embossed, glossy, black-on-black titles on the cover. To me it is a thing of beauty.

Best of all is the title given to the new version: Conspiracy Theories – Special Edition. I never thought I would see one of my books with the words ‘Special Edition emblazoned across the front. I feel like a film director getting to release a director’s cut DVD set.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

Trying to shake the sleep from my eyes this morning, I stood and looked out on the canal. There was something wrong with the picture. Still addled with the decay of half-life dreams, it took me a few moments to process what was different.

The canal was frozen.

Except for one small patch that stood up to the bullying of the -5°C temperature during the night, the water around my home was now supporting a thin crust of ice. Clearly baffled birds moved gingerly across the new environment. Hogging the one gash in the crystal skin were three swans, new visitors to my stretch of the Regent. While I and everything else shivered, they were the epitome of effortless elegance.

When I ventured outside, the cold air stripped away the last trace of sleep, but the surprises kept coming. At the point where the Westway traffic rumbles oblivious over the canal, more than 100 geese were gaggling. A honking chorus sounded as I pushed through them. Beaks were snapped open and shut like teen hoods trying to intimidate by playing with knives. Thankfully my ankles and knees escaped unpecked.

With the swans, geese, the partridge I ate at the Army and Navy Club and number of Lords I met last week, I feel as if every day at the moment is trying to offer up a gift category from The Twelve Days of Christmas. There have been no gold rings, maids or calling birds yet. However, given that Christmastide does not actually start to the 25th, there is plenty of time for the universe to deliver.

When Cities Dream

This morning canalside was dusted white. The roofs of boats painted with hoar frost, the towpath glinting thanks to its temporary crystal carpet. Neither the smoking chimneys of the barges, pumping out the intoxicating scent of burning wood, nor the runty sun were shifting the new palette.

I walked along the canal, boots crunching frost flowers. I left shiny impressions of my previous position on the path with each footstep, crushed silver ghosts. I exhaled dragon breath, stuffed my hands deep into my pockets and kept moving south.

The pavement of Little Lebanon was untouched by the cocaine spill whiteout. Its storefronts still a riot of colour as crimson cherries fought for space with pillar box red chillies and Tyrian purple aubergines. Even on a frosty London morning, some of the area’s shops still exude a sense of Middle Eastern heat

Finding my pockets too short of coins for either a Beirut breakfast or a coffee, I turned into the Georgian plush of Connaught Square. I made my usual nod to security and was frozen in place not by the Heckler & Koch holders, but the vision at the end of Stanhope Place. Instead of the usual burst of green, under frost and low mist Hyde Park was transformed into an inland sea. The street now ended at the start of an illusion I did not wish to shake.

For a few moments I was caught in the City’s dream of itself, a reverie of tides and rolling spray. When we dream we may become other people. When cities dream, they become other places. In trance, London allows itself to become so large and fantastic its imagined maps even include nautical charts.

Becoming David So

At the moment I keep reading official documents that refer to me as David So. I worry that this interesting approach to energy conservation while typing in some circles will eventually lead to the creation of a tulpa. I am not sure the David So who currently lives only in the words of bureaucratic papers is a homunculi I would want to see achieve awareness. David So is certainly not a man to be trusted. He spends far too much time talking to politicians and attending functions where he behaves impeccably.

Worse still is the prospect of this strange entity taking possession of me in the way Ziggy once consumed Bowie. I am resisting with all my strength becoming David So. His path is one that leads to disavowal of chocolate and recommendations for membership of dubious orders.

It is a good job that there are more corporal beings called David So – a mortgage broker, a programmer et al – to block his way. Otherwise I suspect he might escape from his existence in reports and memos. He is definitely the sort to bleed into cyberspace, establish a virtual beachhead before trudging through the murky mire bordering the Westminster Village.

A Twinkling Canalside Outpost of Hogwarts

Due to circumstances beyond my control I may shortly be homeless. It will break my heart to leave the canal, pushed inland by brute economics. Tears will be shed.

I could start feeling the sorrow now. It would be the perfect partner for the worry about where I will be laying my head after this year closes. Yet last night the only response that made sense was to host a party.

Adrian, the lovely Canadian man I live with, will be in the Philippines for Christmas and the New Year. This provided the perfect excuse to hold a gathering. Wine was mulled, food heaped onto tables and our home transformed by light. Every flat surface held a candle creating a pool of stuttering golden warmth. Fairylights and snowflake LEDS were tumbled across the windows. From the water it must have looked as if we become a twinkling canalside outpost of Hogwarts.

As the hours flowed, I drank Kir Royale and Canadian icewine, watching as every guest marvelled at the spills of light rippling across the black night of the canal. According to Surreal Girl, I sat cross-legged and held court like Buddha. I think this is a little unfair as I do not remember Prince Siddhārtha answering questions about the Mongolian Death Worm.

Five Inches of Geek Plastic

I am lucky enough to enjoy the support of some ardent fans of my published work. Although I worry about anyone who will bid more than £296 on eBay for my privately circulated monograph on the Angry Brigade (I do not even own a copy anymore and that price never will again) their enthusiasm for my output is beyond flattering. While I may be flabbergasted at the lengths this small band of individuals will go to obtain my non-commercially released material, I am awed by their generosity.

I have at least one anonymous fan that during the past two years has been sending me a wonderful assortment of Doctor Who toys. More than one dark elevenses of the soul has been alleviated by opening a padded envelope to find not a death threat, but an Assault Dalek. The burst of inner sun comes not from the gift itself, but the knowledge someone likes my work enough to want to try to brighten my day with five inches of geek plastic.

Today, I received via a remailer the following message: ‘I am a fan. I have sent you tokens of appreciation in the past and would like to send you something for Christmas. I cannot do this as you have shut down your PO Box. Please provide in a public forum your new postal address.’

Given current security concerns, I am sorry to say that there is no public snail mail address for sending Christmas cards or battle-damaged Daleks to this year. I will try to provide one in the first quarter of 2008, but until then, those who wish to show their appreciation and support can do so without recourse to the postal system. This Yule, plant a tree, unleash your creativity and start a blog, commit acts of random niceness on unsuspecting strangers. Trust me, doing any of those things – then letting me know about them via a remailer – will almost put as much of a smile on my face as figure of a Judoon Trooper.

The Fluid Beauty of Hangul Script

For the first time in my career as a writer, Imago – my Korean publisher – has given me the chance to create exclusive content for a foreign translation of one of my books. Opening up my inbox this morning at 7:30 and seeing that the 1, 000 word preface for the new Korean Edition of Conspiracy Theories met with my editor’s approval delivered a little bit of authorial buzz. It not only gave me a sense of being read, alleviating the usual suspicion of working in the dark and going unnoticed, it allowed me a new sense of wonder about my life in language.

Here were words written specially for a place I have never seen. Words written specifically to give me a voice in a tongue I have not mastered. Words written to be transformed into the fluid beauty of Hangul script.

I was going to post the original English version of the new preface on the blog. However, I have decided against it. I like the idea that some of my words are unique for Korea.

The Joys of Blogging

As I mentioned earlier this month, I am thinking of putting out a collection of entries from English Dreaming, English Rain in book form. Regardless of it being destined to only have a print run in single figures, I want to ensure that it can survive beyond binary oblivion. The need to preserve is not purely about author vanity. I have learned harsh lessons in how vulnerable memory and the words that help capture it can be.

One of the joys of blogging is interaction with readers and I would like to capture the flavour of that within the proposed English Dreaming, English Rain 2005-2007 tome. To this end, I am looking into the possibility of setting up this blog's first poll. The rough idea is that readers would be able to vote on which entries from the last two years deserve to make the transition from digital to dead tree format. Being the lowest of the lo-tec boys, I am not quite sure how to make that happen yet, so in the meantime if you have suggestions please email me.