The first day in the resort is drawing to a close. From my bungalow up on the hill, I can hear the pounding of music from the bar down on the beach; it’s only about 10pm local time, so that might continue for a while yet. The low-level thudding of what sounds like the first eight bars of New Order’s Blue Monday, over and over again isn’t so annoying now, but possibly in another four hours, if I’m still devoid of sleep, it might make me a bit cross.
I retreated after dinner to catch up with some work that I couldn’t delegate ("Only you can prevent fires! Only you!") and my struggle to move bits of data around took quite some time. Not as much time as it took me to work out how to turn on the light in the bathroom, but still a good few hours.

Now I have the dilemma of walking back down the hill to socialise, or trying to sleep. As the thud thud thud thud thudathudathudathuda shows no sign of abating, it’s not clear that I’d get any sleep if I don’t go down the hill, but then if I do go down the hill everyone will see what a state I’m in – perhaps better not to advertise that too much.

My day has been rather muddled up. Part of this is probably jet lag, and part of it is not having enough time to do things in the right order. I had my morning dose of vitamins about half an hour ago, because until then I haven’t had access to a glass of water at the same time as having my effervescent vitamin C pill handy. I read the whole of Bedsit Disco Queen over the last 24 hours, concluding it early in the morning when I should have been getting some exercise to wake myself up (if this had been a normal day). Combined with reading Duff McKagan’s autobiography yesterday, the two blur together into a confusing mixture. There are points where the two intersect (both writers know one of the founders of the Sub Pop record label) and I suppose there’s other commonality, in the way that Duff’s pancreas explodes after he drinks too much, and Tracy Thorn’s partner, Ben Watt, having his small intestine shrivel under the impact of a rare auto-immune disease, except that these occur for very different reasons, to people with very different lifestyles.

Also, Duff McKagan wasn’t the sort of person who was so shy that at band rehearsals he insisted on singing from inside a wardrobe. Guns N Roses would have been quite different if that had been the case. No wonder that I’m a bit baffled by today.

2 responses to “Blurred”

    • I really, really enjoyed it. It’s been on my wish list for a rather long time – for best results, pair it with ‘Bad Vibes’, the Luke Haines autobiography, and then you’ll have a perfect combination of well-adjusted/maladjusted pop personalities…

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