The Jazz Weasel moved out of my back room on amicable terms yesterday, after 18 months of experimenting with hair, jazz, hair jazz and pesto-based pasta dishes. Even though the experience was sometimes similar to Tom Waits' song What's He Building In There, we've had a right laugh over the past year and a half, and we'll continue to do so in a professional capacity with various workshops, but it was probably a good idea to go our separate ways before he turned into some comical sitcom lodger and I turned into Leonard Rossiter. It'll be good to meet him for drinks, discussions about Frank Zappa and minor pentatonic fretboard workouts, without having to quietly fume about where he's left the teabags or the trail of his jazz underpants.
Evening creative writing was great as well, using music as a trigger for memory writing. My piece of poetry managed to rhyme Frank Bough with goth, although I'm not suggesting that's what he's doing now. I also seem to have angered everyone in the second year of creative writing. Weird, isn't it, how even as mature students there's a certain snobby hierarchy between year groups, and how the second years have some kind of pseudo-intellectual cachet and fondness for bodywarmers, while us first years (some in their 50s!) are regarded as the naive young upstarts?