Aerial Silk Showgirls and 10-foot Tall Porcelain Androids

This morning, dragon breath leaking from my lips, I walked hand-in-hand with my Lady Love along the canal. Wood smoke from our neighbours on the cut kissed the air, frost teased the cobbles. This might all sound somewhat chocolate box, but it qualifies as standard for this time of year in the Three Bridge Kingdom.

However, it has to be said that whist it is common to wend our rosey-cheeked way along the towpath as the city begins to wake, I do not usually do it wearing full black tie. The blame for such out of place ostentation lies in last night. Last night was an awards ceremony. This meant a Mayfair hotel, Dara Ó Briain, champagne, sea bass with a Pernod sauce, aerial silk showgirls and 10-foot tall porcelain androids wearing Venetian carnival masks.

Generally, I do not like award ceremonies. The constant forced mentions of corporate sponsors makes you ache for the blade, the table talk tends towards mind-crushingly dull and I never win. Yet surrounded by good Yorkshire company and with the Grosvenor House threatening to tumble into an episode of Doctor Who, enjoying myself was easy – despite the fact it looked as if the volto might have had laser weapons built into their black opal eye sockets.

‘Zombie Plague Spreads’

I am becoming attached to the tawdry paranoia of the Evening Standard vendor posters. Although the headlines are meant to tease, they cannot seem to help themselves. They scream like a mistrustful tramp high on methylated spirit.

Tonight, the West End Final poster wailed: ‘London Freezes -10 Warning’. It was like the tagline for a low thrill disaster movie. (Readers in certain parts of Northern America can now start laughing at the fact -10°C is considered news). You just know that the headline writers long for the day then can issue a poster proclaiming: ‘Apocalypse’, ‘Civilisation Doomed’ or ‘Zombie Plague Spreads’.

It is possible my fondness for the posters is down to the fact they remind me of their use as exposition devices in classic BBC sci-fi. No Quatermass serial or earthbound Doctor Who of the 1960s would seem complete if it did not feature a newsstand poster proclaiming ‘Skeleton Found in Knightsbridge Pit’ or ‘London Evacuated’. Just before Christmas I liberated a poster that seemed to have fallen through a dimension where alien invasions are ten a penny by shouting: ‘Fears Grow for Doctor Who’. It still has wall space. At the hands of Evening Standard poster writers, scaremongering with due regard for word economy is an art.

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.

Camomile and The Claws Of Axos

The insomnia is constant, but last night was the worst in years. After the turmoil of seeing Anne-Marie Forker for the last time and taking the rest of my stuff from the flat, not even three mugs of camomile and honey and the usual soundtrack of DVD commentaries could get me to sleep. To make it worse, they put the clocks back, so I had an extra hour to endure. Hopefully, tonight will be a little easier. Bone-deep weariness and The Claws Of Axos might win out over fear and sense of loss.

I suspect I’m not going to get much work done ahead of going into hospital on the 17th. I’d love to think that I’d get the iboga selling document done and after more than 13 years, finally sort out the Bill Hick’s interview within the next two weeks, but I also know that being in this much of a black dog, creative work will become a subset of surviving.

I've no desire to look at my current situation of impending surgery and the heartbreak of losing the love of you life after seven years in Pollyana mode, however, it has had some benefits besides rapid weight loss. I’ve enjoyed support from friends who I had not previously realised how much they actually cared for me. I’ve even found myself able to ask a couple of them for help. Asking for help is wonderfully out of character for me as I’d usually much rather give aid than receive it.