Saturday
Home today after a few days away attending a tatting tournament held in one of our grimier northern towns which I shall refrain from naming in case I have to go there again, which I sincerely hope not. It was not one of my happiest tournaments, mainly because I was using a new tatting shuttle and was not used to it. I’m afraid that those who had bets on me were somewhat disappointed. My reputation was slightly dented, although I was able to redeem myself a little on the final evening, when I triumphed in the farewell all-comers fastest doily “grand prix”.
Sunday
Learned today of the existence of a writer by the name of Eric Ericson, who seems to have made his somewhat dubious “name” by writing potboilers about Satanism and Sex. Thank the lord that he is not a relation: it appears he was using a “pen name”. Why anyone would use a pen name is beyond me, but in this case I’m glad he did!
Monday
Foggy this morning, and not just outside! I treated myself to a bottle of Lidl’s finest house red yesterday evening, to accompany my Sunday roast, and I am afraid it has lain heavily upon my psyche and my limbs. I also had a very odd dream wherein I was doing some photocopying in the office of Boris Johnson. I have to say I am extremely fed up with dreams. I have not had a happy one for ages, and life is dreary enough without waking up in a bad mood and starting the day off on the wrong one of the only two feet I have.
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Eric Eric
(tatter & poet)
Picture Rupert Loydell
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