There’s an annual ghost hunt. My team from last year had Bernard Cribbins and Eric Sykes. They’re here again this year. I decide to play solo this year, as last year they slowed me down by carrying a plank with them everywhere, for comic effect. I have a train ticket that gives me free reign on the London Underground, and I set off, on foot.
I walk through Marylebone. Homeless men with blue dogs argue in the street. I walk past, on into the park. The park is full of grand houses, the stairs up to them blocked with the later addition of huge gold statues of Charlemagne, in a tasteless, rococo style porticos. I’m guessing oligarchs live here.
It gets dark, and starts to rain. I head home. I have two dogs. A frantic Jack Russell, symbolic of my mania, and a huge black German shepherd, the symbol of my depression.
My black dog tries to hump me. Mr Manic digs into the furniture, trying to find his chewy hoof.
My publishers are observing this. I explain the symbolism.
I write, but my handwriting is so bad, that I change it into an ink drawing, creating visual portraits of people, characters from characters. The inks run into colours. I’m happy with the result, ink drawing with the original, terrible writing still visible beneath.
I’m back in the ghost hunt. I meet a friend, and tell her the Cranberries have offered to let me open a set for them. I can’t see how I can perform my stuff live though. My music is mostly electronic, I don’t have a band.
I visit Compo, another ghost hunter, in his tiny unlocked cottage. I let myself in. He doesn’t want visitors, but is very nice about it. We chat and drink tea, and I leave. I notice strange folds and mud stains on my jeans, I’ve no idea where they came from.