I don’t want to cause any sort of expectation of continuity or coherence with this texts, but here I am talking about my writing. Again. My only consistent habit is my weekly visit to the local butcher Andrew, to get my weekend steaks. Neither is he particularly good, nor friendly to me. I know his name because I overheard it, a few of the many Thursdays I’ve been there. We don’t even speak any more, as he manages to cut and pack me my 2 lbs as he sees me entering the door. All I do really is to go to the left, where this lady works as a cashier, and pay the usual 10 quid. She also doesn’t speak to me, but grabs a note like no one else. So apart from this I am not a man of habits. I don’t watch the telly, I don’t walk on a certain path or take the same bus. I don’t drink the same beer, I don’t cite the same author or song lyric. I don’t love the same woman. But now I see myself having to post to this post post-modern typewriter my thoughts and memories accumulated in the various years of my existence. The ones that survived the erasing power of alcohol. The ones I’m proud and the ones I have to make peace with. A few I don’t want to remember as well. Maybe I’ll lie a bit… not to you, but to myself — as I just did, saying I don’t love the same woman.