It wasn’t an especially late night, nor am I up especially early but this abuse of the snooze button screams The Struggle Bus. I chalk it up to back half of the week energy and we’re suited and booted, ready to roll in around forty minutes at a push with coffee to go. Kit Kat has the plague and is welcome to take it back home, far, far away from this realm so we’re a woman down in the lab, which is fine because it’s a rainy day in Soho out there and I’ve a pretty clear slate for the day.
The morning passes without event. I send that F2 to the showroom cabinet upstairs from whence I cannot be tempted and tell myself that’s the end of it. Two fairly regular togs come in looking for prints and I lead them both to the All You Can Eat Highlights Banquet that is Baryta Rag. That paper eats anything with high contrast / high colour contrast for breakfast and I like to think they feel as good as I do about this new plane of existence for them. Printing one’s work is nice. Printing one’s work well is transcendental.
Dean Friedman (yes that one) was in town and Mr. P might be a fangirl. We scored comp seats to a casual show at a pleasant little pub out in the sticks by way of windswept and interesting, north of the M25. He is an interesting song writer for writers of songs and has this keys run down of Handel’s wedding march that doesn’t go back on itself, which I’ve only ever seen pulled off beautifully the once before. Although now I watch it, Laura does go back. Regardless, it’s a magnificent mine or well from which to draw if you’re going to root around in the classics.
He also had an interesting analogy that utilised the bizzaro world of Clark Kent to parallel the whole American thing at the moment, betraying a certain affection for both the science and the fiction, as well as comics and may or may not be the estranged father of Nigel Blackwell?
Something about free lunches being anything but and not meeting anyone else’s idols, let alone your own
