Factory

There is a mini-factory of teenage girls in the next door room, transcribing interviews for me. It's an experiment: they are bored and skint and I have a backlog to get through. There was a bit of shouting earlier on but I'm hoping for at least two hours of graft before they gravitate down to the pizza in the kitchen. I can hear through the paper tissue walls that they have been invited to a picnic on Hampstead heath but I hope they are turning it down.
When I've stopped prevaricating by writing this, I am going to go through Matthew Bannister's book again; it describes the male indie mindset exceedingly and depressingly well and I am sure there is something there that I can bounce ideas off.
Gina called first thing this morning and she is going to put a version of the video we made of The Song of the Unsung Heroine up on Youtube later today.
It's all go here in matchbox house: Offsprog One is living here at the moment but she's doing work experience and just returning home knackered for food and sleep.
There are clean and dirty clothes draped over every chair, bedpost, and table.
Shoes lie ready for feet to be stuffed into them at various strategic places on each floor.
Library books stick to the kitchen worktop and drifts of cherry stones clog the corners of the living room. Empty cups wait forlornly to be cleared away.
A small toy, a yellow rubber man, has been lying on the kitchen floor for three days; every so often he sticks to someone's foot and relocates. Who does he belong to? We are all grown up here, or at least we think we are.
In between it all, I remember 'Walk tall, walk straight and look the world right in the eye', the lyric from the good old Val Doonican song.
It always struck me as quite good advice from the cosy knitted gentleman.