I am surrounded by bohemians right now. Mike is just putting the final touches to his BBC documentary, and lives a lifetyle of decadence, housecoats and whisky. Last night I was at Simon's book signing in Blackwell's, just round the corner from me. He spoke and read out parts from the book, and I have to say it was very enjoyable. Especially the parts about me. As I was buying his signed copy, I noticed a CD by the counter, by a girl called Julie Fowlis, who I used to go to school with. I purchased it, only to later realise the CD itself was missing. No matter, I will claim it today. It's all in Gaelic and Mike is interested in hearing it, as it might go well with his documentary, which takes place in Lewis. In a wider orbit, there are relatives with books out, or a sister's friend displaying art in Edinburgh's National Gallery.
I'm getting sucked into this bohemian creative mania too. I try my best to be a stoic, blunt, pragmatic oil-based luddite, but it now seems as though Mike and I will write a film together in a few weeks. He's got an idea which, rarely, I think is good, and with his exquisitive film knowhow and my... hmm... we think we can make something possibly quite good. In the meantime, I've got my own book out. It's called The Sponsor's Parade, and there is one copy in existence. I don't recommend it.
Fortunately, all this bohemian awfulness is to be shaked and shot out of me very soo, as tomorrow I go to Nigeria. In Nigeria, there is no room for the bohemian. Gracious, no. If I had more intelligence, I'd be deeply scared, but the bohemian in me thinks it may be "interesting".