After a weekend of drinking fizzy wine, vigorously baking cupcakes, and hanging up bunting and garden lantern lighting paraphernalia (which looked beautifully festival-like in the evening), Jamie’s attempt at having two birthdays in two weeks is over. Staying at a friends for the aftermath, we spent Sunday on a walk through fields and woods; me with inappropriate gripless shoes and hungover muscles. “Well, you’re hardly Indiana Jones,” I was told as I failed to pull myself over a fence on a minor incline.

We also went to an art gallery, Spacex, that trod a brilliant line down a mix of installations, photography, video and drawings – without being up its own ass – and wonderfully avoided any nonsensical art which hinged on enjoying gallons of pseudo-intellectual art blurb. I suspect that Brighton is sometimes a bit guilty of pseudo-intellectual blurb (I know it is). It was refreshing.

I liked the squid that attacked a submarine, turning on every fifteen minutes and reacting with motion sensors to terrify everyone around it. Perhaps I just like bright electronics and fuzzy fibre optics. It also had a submarine pinging noise to press with a satisfying big red button. I tested it a lot. Here I can be seen not only demonstrating the glory of the Squid Submarine but also doing a loud sort of Cartman/Weebl & Bob impression for unknown reasons.

Straight from the pages of Jules Verne – a motorised model submarine by Cut and Scrape lurches about in the clutches of a giant squid.

Amongst other pieces the slightly porny ink drawings of sea creatures looked like the animals out of George Orwell’s 1984 that used to scare me as a kid.

Illustration: Demetrios Psillos

It is 6am. Behind thick set curtains rain has been falling for an hour or two and dark light of the morning has begun to sneak in around the edges. Though Exeter is far from the coast, seagulls are making seagull noises, sharp and pleasant in the empty morning. A cooing pigeon chimes in for a second, sounding like the woody village – the place where home is always home, regardless of where I move about to.

I have not slept, and have been reading Lucy Mangan of the Guardian. I have decided I like journalism. If it continues this way, I could easily begin to regularly read the Guardian. I could even begin to wear brown corduroy as I hear Guardian readers do. I could, I suspect, be very good at both.

Lucy Mangan has written about the Famous Five, and today has also written a brief James Bond play which centres around a picture. In the picture is a cat that looks suspiciously like a pretend cat I have been making up stories about as of late (also looks much like this). There is also another cat in the picture who looks like a black bear (right).

It is a rather good screen play, and it is not just about cats. It is not something I would usually read, but I have been reading it out loud, amongst tears falling down my face and hissy, noisy sniggers that stopped me talking. Perhaps I was delirious. You can read it here, and I hope it makes you smile if you do. Now I am going to play about with blogging calendars and watch Sherlock Holmes gleefully.

I am two weeks behind the trend but I very much like Sherlock, the BBC’s new Sherlock Holmes. This runs with a love for the original Holmes, clue-based logic, a secret adoration of the bumbling Jonathan Creek, and rude but witty dialogue. I’d put the trailer up but it takes the good bits out of context and plonks funky music over them, so you’d probably loose all respect for it immediately.

I have written a sterling Bitchbuzz article about it, including the words ‘detective-icity’ and ‘wankerness’. Find it here, and the show is online via the BBC online.

We sat for a while on an old sofa in a 40s style room, with old music and war reports playing, wondering what the world used to be like.

They created a simple room that was one of the most interesting by blocking up the door. Rattling the door handle you can’t get in through, you’re forced to peer through a slit window or a small peephole around the corner at kneeling level. Peering through the tiny hole gave an angular look into the room, craning about to see a glowing yellow room with a chair and a bit of paper. Through a peep hole, we learned, everything is more interesting.

Mostly though, I liked the story that comes with this red cardboard house. It is simple and an indecisively laboriously journey. I like most that the inside colour is a mystery, but only because of the story.

In other news, there was also a minimal and inconsequential picture of a nice bird and some lightbulbs.

I wanted a bit of balance, to fit more into a day. A good wifi connection could have worked wonders. Granted, I read the most books I have all year. That was good.

And now I have some time – the first of the summer – and it is lovely. The antsy itch that whispered “I don’t much like commuting with the general public” is fading and I’m excited about working close to home in the future. My short holiday is off to Exeter now. We will go to the zoo.

Everything coming may be out of order from the stored drafts scattered throughout my laptop. For now, this has been the last two weeks.

We arrive for the support, The Enormous Shadow, made up of two chaps taking part in the prominent theme of the evening: doc martins with skinny trousers rolled up. One is eager, wearing doc martins and rolled-up skinny trousers, tapping synthetic noises from a keyboard arrangement, whilst the bassist almost hides on stage, immobile whilst doing some key strumming here and there. He moves twice and we spot him like a zebra in the grass, surprised. Despite this, they’re nice. They play jolly synthetic cloud-like tunes, each fairly similar to its predecessor and very little difference between the overall acts. Excitedly twee enthusiasm shines through and it’s all rather lovely to wobble about to.

The Enormous Shadow

Toro Y Moi

Everyone looks happy, but in true British style we’re all mysteriously standing 15 feet away from the stage. No one has any idea why we’re here, but it began this way and stays this way.

We leapt forward excitedly for Toro Y Moi, the main reason for coming. Described as “more producer than songwriter” by Pitchfork, compared to the similar almost indistinguishable chillwave bands creating ‘summer tunes (despite the genre being little to do with beaches and being released all year round), his songs are more layered. He’s less immediately catchy, but he’s distinctively crafted compared to the likes of Memory Tapes or musical relation Washed Out , groaning at the phrase, he’s a grower.

The tunes are hazy and infectious, and somewhat similar – all tunes from the ‘Causes of This’ EP released in January. For a change, Bundick is playing with support and veteran Toro giggers tell us it’s infinitely better. The bassist is delightfully groovy and the drummer holds it all together with skilled aplomb. The room is made of heat and everyone sweat profusely. He creates wonderfully jiggly tunes and despite the fact T-shirts start going see-through and the gig is wonderful.

Toro y moi

A week or two ago I missed Mr Shirky talk about Cognitive Surplus, because a train was delayed. Inside I sobbed violently, but got over it okay. Essentially it’s “the idea of spare brainpower in the world’s collective mind just sitting there waiting, wanting, to be harnessed.”

He has a similar sort of talk up on Ted, above. (I really have to stop posting TED talks up here.) I like it though, because I can sit happily and reflect on the number of projects like Bored of Brighton taking place around the world to help people. And I like shiny Clay Shirky because a great deal of the second year of my degree focused on his work, and he writes about blogging nicely. All this makes me happy.

Today, the ever-wonderful Information is Beautiful have created a visualisation: US adults watching TV vs. the creation of Wikipedia. “A shocking proportion,” he says, but then.. we do multitask, no?

Saturdays have been spent tidying endlessly and making angel delight.