I've been painting the stairwell this morning: it's been a gloomy pink colour ever since it was re-plastered before Christmas. I bought a roller on a stalk, which works really well but can't get into the edges and corners, so I'm going to make a paintbrush on a stalk with a bamboo pole and a paintbrush when I get to that stage.
It was surprisingly knackering. I'm slumped with a coffee now, listening to the washing machine. I have just completed another song, and have yet another on the way, about people like J. K. Rowling who flip to being utter right-wingers after taking the same road as those of us who will never forget the bumpy road we've travelled along. This morning, I threw the Cormoran Strike novels in the recycling bin. What a pity such a great writer has such noxious views. I would have thought the tragic murder of Brianna Ghey might have educated her on the consequences of hate speech.
This is a major thing that I genuinely can not understand: how can one human being tell other human beings how they feel, and who they are? How can men tell women how they feel, white people tell black people how they feel, people of one culture or religion decide what others should feel? Surely being open and interested in humanity precludes that- and if you're a writer (or indeed any sort of creative person), shouldn't you be even more open and tolerant to difference?
Oh no- now I've started wondering if I should be writing a critical song when I should be open to J. K. Rowling's difference! Just checking the lyrics, and it's all questions.
That's OK, I suppose.
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