Not much to write home about today, but even a few sentences prove that I exist, should there be some kind of audit.

I went to the vert centre in Bermondsey, to climb walls and try to remove some of the images from my mind. I arrived in a fog, having wasted three hours reading old strips of a web comic I’ve belatedly discovered. I’ve still got around ten years’ worth of backstory to get through; the strips’ characters talk about Ladytron and Steve Malkumus solo albums.

Finally late enough to brave the centre – I don’t like my verts crawling with humans – I had a pretty good session, successfully verting some verts I’d never verted before. I got into a nice rhythm with a fellow verter: we didn’t actually talk but we shared a few smiles and knowing glasses as we fell into tackling the same problems.

I’ve been sleeping quite badly recently, so the relentless vertification is a ruse to tire myself out enough to sleep. I’m not sure it’s working though: last night I woke up in the midst of terrible dreams about people I haven’t seen in years. It’s partly a seasonal thing: I associate autumn with impending doom, due to things falling apart around this time of year on two or three past critical occasions. It’d be good to shake out of that narrative. Hopefully this fall will be full of mellow fruitiness, as the poem almost goes.

Talking of impending doom, this weekend sees this year’s Labour leadership election. My housemate joined the party last year, and her ballot paper sits sadly on the living room table. She’s not sure who to vote for. Clearly she’s disappointed with how Corbyn has turned out so far, whereas his opponent, Owen Smith, resembles an unsuccessful Viz character. 

To bed! To bed. Sleep well, everyone. Dream of nothing.