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18th October 2013

When I wake up in a morning, early for work, my facial expression is like that of a WW1 soldier with shell shock. That’s my natural resting expression; a muddled, exhausted sort of horror at waking life. Then I drink coffee and compose myself. But when I’m at my most relaxed, it’s a combination of scenes from Munch, Botticelli and In The Night Garden.

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I was reading Amiri Baraka’s poems when he died. I’m reading One Hundred Years of Solitude and Gabriel García Márquez has died. Perhaps for the hat-trick I should read Tony Benn’s diaries and see if it has the reverse effect on the deceased. It is Easter after all. But I’ll probably just blow it on Tony Blair.

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