Further to the previous entry, the BBC, Guardian and other UK news sites did get around to mentioning David Foster Wallace’s suicide after all, albeit a full day after this diary did. I feel the same way I did when returning from the Haringey Council elections in 2006 and publishing the full results to the diary, only to find that I was ahead of the council’s own website by several hours. And even then they got the numbers slightly wrong: I had to email them their own correct results.
Despite appearances, my feeling in both cases is not the smugness of the amateur reporter scooping the professionals, or the grumbling of one of those armchair experts who seem to write with one finger endlessly wagging till the grave (‘and another thing…!’).
No, it’s more the vague annoyance at being annoyed per se, when there’s far more deserving matters to give a hoot about.
***
Diary catch-up. In bits.
Friday Sept 12th: Fosca’s trip to Madrid for a one-off gig.
Highgate, early hours. The taxi is due to collect me at 5.30am, and as usual I can’t get a wink of sleep beforehand. All I can think about is the entirely possible horror of the doorbell ringing while I’m in bed, with me having slept through the alarm. Add this worry to the excitement and nervousness of the trip, and it seems pointless going to bed at all. But I still give it a go, lying there in the dark, utterly awake until the alarm goes, feeling foolish.
Our taxi driver is slightly played by Ray Winstone. I think it’s fair to say this, because the first thing he tells me as I emerge from the house is:
‘Blimey – you look like Thomas Dolby.’
I groggily attempt a smile – well, a smirk – and shove my suitcase in the boot. I can see Charley inside the car, trying hard not to laugh.
‘I guess you get people telling you that all the time, eh?’
‘Well… I often have people saying who I remind them of…’
‘Nah. It’s DEFINITELY Thomas Dolby. Definitely.’
And he says this is if it’s the most reasonable and useful thing in the world. Off we go.
Tags: Fosca play Madrid, manesakes
