I discovered a while ago that the bus ride from CAmbridge to Victoria, although about 40 minutes longer than the train, is quite an interesting bus tour of London. It approaches via the East End, goes past the Tower, then through Aldgate and WEstminster, then down Embankment to Victoria. It's also much cheaper.

So I jumped on the 8.30 bus this morning, and got off in front of the Tate Britain. I've been there 2 or 3 times before, but the stuff doesn't exactly date, does it ? There were also the stands and banners of Brian Haws' antiwar protest, recently banned from Parliament Square. Among the photos of blinded Afghan and Iraqi babies were the names of the MPs who voted in favour of the war. Depressing to see Dennis Skinner was one of them. It might have seemed from one thing I wrote last year that I supported the invasion. I didn't- I wrote letters to the press, had massive arguments about it and based lessons on material from CND, the New Internationalist and a biog of Gertrude Bell. I would have gone on the anti-invasion demo if it hadn't clashed with my brother's 40th birthday in Scotland. I was just bemused by Blair- that rapidly turned to disgust.

There was also a special exhibit in the Tate of three watercolours that Turner painted in Switzerland. Absolutely amazing- actually better than his oils that are ten times the size. Then off to browse the guitar shops of Denmark Street. Well, a visit to London just wouldn't be complete without it.

Some things in life at the moment are so fucking like something out of a JG Ballard book it's unreal. I was slumped over the photocopier at work waiting for my lesson to finish printing when I realised I was quite enjoying the warmth coming from it. It's more likely to give me cancer. As I watch music clips on YouTube my hand rests permanently on the house. Take it away and I might suddenly expire in a heap.

You Tube can provide some absolute gems, but some glimpses of a past I'd sooner forget. Watching a band on a programme I actually remember watching when I was 18 gives me the willies. I love the music, but then suddenly remember something my skin wasn't thick enough to deflect at the time. Nostalgia is a dangerous thing.

I've had a couple of dreams in recent months where I was in cities that were composites of places where I've lived. In one I was homeless in a cross between Musselburgh and some other place. Last night it was Glasgow crossed with Athens. In the dream I had woken up and couldn't tell if it was day or night, despite wandering the streets. Then I woke up for real. Deconstruct that if you dare. It still doesn't top being chased, hand in hand with Meg White from the White Stripes, by a zombie Judi Dench. That was a CORKER.

Favourite songs just now-
"More Adventurous", by Rilo Kiley
"All these things you are", by Dizzy Gillespie
"BE here to love me", Townes Van Zandt

I teach a language to foreign adults, so, as their langauge level is usually equivalent to that of an infant, I usually have to have an infantile level of communication with them. That's OK- they accept it, I try not to patronise them and I try and be as patient and tolerant as any teacher should be. But what the FUCK can you do when someone turns the handout you give them upside down and starts doing a completely different lesson from the one that you're conducting and everyone else is obviously participating in ? Or when they ask you, 3/4 of the way into a writing lesson, who "the reader" is ? Or when you spend 20 minutes helping them to prepare questions for a conversation, which they then ignore, and start to improvise questions which are inevitably wrong and irrelevant to both the topic and the answers their partner has prepared ??? It's NOT misunderstanding, it's sheer outright stupidity and I'm amazed at how far my tolerance of it has evaporated over the holidays.

And while I'm at it, a word to any toothless gripers who've got nothing better to do than whine at me about pushing my bike beside me (NOT riding it)on the pavement , as this has happened twice this week. It's NOT against any by-law, and I know because I asked the Police. Now fuck off back the bingo and drain the caller of HIS will to live.

The last few days have been a strain. Being back at work wasn't so bad, but had a rather nasty scene with a neighbour last night, with resultant lack of sleep. Suffice to say it's patched up now.

I spent most of the last week of my holiday composing emails to a long long list of art editors, and phoning venues for gigs. At times I think I haven't changed at all since I was a child. I beaver away frantically, like when I tried to build a boat out of plywood offcuts, aged 10 or so. I never work with others. I just don't trust their input. But I try to do absolutely everything alone, and as a result either don't finish it, or finish it and am too exhausted to take it anywhere. I don't know if that can explain why I ended up crying while watching "Iris" on Sunday night. It may well ahve just reminded me of my gran, though she never lost it that badly. Bumping into my ex in the street that morning may have helped too.

Anyway. A guy is walking down a country lane when he sees a guy shagging a donkey. Somewhat alarmed, he goes to the farm and knocks on the door, and a young guy opens it.
"I'm sorry", says the guy, "but there's a bloke in your field- I don't know if it's your father or a farm hand- fucking a donkey".

"Oh yeah", says the lad. "That's my father. Don't worry- hee-HAAAWllways does that".

Happy New Year, folks. Here's hoping for-

1) Eliza Dushku's imminent relocation to Cambridge, and sudden taking to wannabe cartoonists/songwriters.

2) George Galloway's debut in Ballamory.

3) Scottish independence, and the banning of references to 1978, 1707, any other year with a 7 in it, collocations of the word "English" with "poof", and the pensioning off of the Proclaimers.

4) The replacement of David Cameron by a snowflake.

5) Wayne Rooney's debut on University Challenge.

6) The abolition of winter.

7) The distribution of red wine tokens.

8) The inappropriate use of black American slang by British teenagers joining high treason as the only remaining capital offence.

9) The appointment of Matt Groening to US Secretary of State.

10) A rocket up the arse of the next person to ask me if I possess, or have ever worn, a kilt.