Smokingboot

They changed things at my work.

I used to have three shows clumped together then a gap then another three etc; now I've just finished a five show run, evening evening day breakfast evening. I have warned them that if they give me an evening show (ends at 3 am back to flat for 4 am) together with a morning shift (up at 6.30 for brief at 8.30) I won't actually take the taxi home, I'll just sleep in the studio. They seemed to like that idea until they realised I wouldn't be camping out in a thong, mascara and Hello Kitty handcuffs; visions of me in a Sandra Dee nightdress with curlers in my hair seem to have curbed their enthusiasm. I'm rubbish on the breakfast show anyway, sitting there looking like a cadaver with half a croissant in its mouth.

Sleeping badly, eating badly, currently covered in spots. Appear to be doing well, but want to go home and create. The heat and rain has turned Great Portland Street's environs into a tropical paradise for rats: over the last week, London town's fattest and finest have grown bolder, scurrying drainwards in the heat of the afternoon.

Maybe our management should give them jobs, as exhaustion has stretched the human staff to the point of hysteria. Last night, our producer, in despair at his love life, mooned us while we were on air. A fine sight, in his ensemble of scarlet underpants with white lining, matching his black, white and red sneakers matching his white t-shirt with red revolver and black revolver shadow. Apparently he gets bored at home. Buttocks? reputedly fine though I couldn't be certain. I was too busy staring cross-eyed down the lens to check.

I hope it was the lens.

Oh angels sweet and demons deep
And fairies dire and kind
Come visit me and bring me sleep
Before I lose my mind.