I Haven't Got A Hat

This is the first time I've been to London since the bomb things. The only noticeable difference is that half the underground lines are closed, and the bins on the train down from Derby were all taped shut with a single strip of red sticky-tape. This doesn't strike me as the kind of thing that would put off a determined bomber. If anything, wouldn't it make life easier for them? All they have to do is peel off the tape, put the bomb in the bin and seal it again. Not only does this security measure present bombers with the unheard-of sight of a train bin not full to overflowing with rubbish, but it makes it less likely that anyone will empty it before the bomb's set to go off.

Still, nobody blew up my train, so I'm here at the net cafe in Victoria, passing the time until I'm meeting Jenny. I've got a small bottle of bacardi and a large coke in my bag, symbolic of my not wanting to repeat the last time I got drunk in Jenny's company and made a complete exhibition of myself. She didn't mind, of course, because she's lovely like that, but I do feel like when I get drunk I should be telling her how lovely she is, rather than forcing her to be on the receiving end of some lengthy whining about how nobody loves me.

Anyway, I want to be in a reasonably fit state tomorrow, because I'm meeting journalist Josh tomorrow lunchtime, also at Victoria, for an interview. God only knows what he's going to ask me, because I've already given him my full life story in graphic detail twice now; once over the phone and then again in person in Darmstadt, with him scribbling down my every utterance, word-for-word and longhand, in a little black notebook. This book he's writing is either going to be the longest work in history, or composed entirely of my reminiscences about everything even vaguely connected with memory competitions.

Also in my bag is my hat, which brings me back to the subject header. Frankly, I'm tired of it. It looks silly, it's uncomfortable, and I'd rather not wear it. I think I look quite cool otherwise - white jeans, white t-shirt, black leather jacket, and the bald head and beard make me look sufficiently eccentric without any need for headgear. But how do I get rid of the thing? I can't just stop wearing it - it's such an inextricable part of my personality. I can see it's going to take some kind of big public announcement, involving comedy sketches, musical numbers and a closing song-and-dance routine to the title number from the 1935 cartoon I named this post after. Or maybe I could just say it blew away in a tornado.

Anyway, time to put the stupid thing on and go and meet Jenny. I'll ask her advice on the subject. And tomorrow I'll find the time to go to every comic shop in London and track down a copy of GLA #4 if it kills me.