The twelfth month ended as the first began, with a strange looking bird telling me my fortune.

For most of July, I was slowly adjusting to life with good vision. Halfway through the month I discovered a friend I’d not spoken to for a while had had the exact same procedure a couple of months before I had, which for her had unfortunately not been such a positive experience. At times, the ‘new me’ misses the ‘old me’s’ glasses, even though I have bought a couple of pairs of ‘falsies’ for future appearances as ‘the other’.

Still, being able to see more clearly doesn’t mean other people can, and at different times this month I have been called Greenback and Greenwood by people who should probably know better: meanwhile, a strange old drunkard on the train said I looked like Pete Best’s grandson, whilst I was finally re-united with Ema Hesire at Liverpool Cathedral. British Gas got me and my bill mixed up with somebody else too, with hilarious consequences (if you happen to ever hear the subsequent conversation) but thankfully the phone calls seem to have dried up, those Jamaican scammers presumably tiring of their efforts to take on my identity. One strange night time occurrence that did happen though, was my dream that our goldfish killed herself and four days later, I found little B floating lifeless.

Meanwhile, my inspiration was rediscovered following a trip to ‘that’ London for an old friend’s thirtieth birthday party. Our hotel reservation at the Old Friend Hotel was not honoured, however we moved to the CV hotel three doors away – a sign for changes at work, I wonder? Anyway the party was great, as was the following day’s excursion to see the Francis Alys exhibition at Tate Modern.

Entitled A Story of Deception, and described by one critic as the ‘greatest ever show of a living artists work’ there, I was looking forward very much to discovering more about this fellow whom I had been recommended to research recently. I left overwhelmed by the Belgian born artist’s prolific career and some of his ‘actions’ which resonated with some of the things I have tried to do, only not half as well. These beautiful drawings, films and objects which document ongoing projects he continues to undertake, including The Rumour, Deja Vu and Doppelganger, deserve a higher profile in my opinion – particularly the latter, which the artist started in Istanbul in 1999 and explains thus:

When arriving in (new city), wander, looking for someone who could be you. If the meeting happens, walk beside your doppelganger until your pace adjusts to his/hers.

When discussing this with the very knowledgeable Imogen Stidworthy (who herself investigates narratives and impersonators) a few days later, she suggested I read Dostoevsky’s The Double, and straight away I realised my ignorance – this being a perfect metaphor and lead-up to what I’ve been going on about for months. It focuses on the old and young Golyadkins, and in this short story “the ordinariness of everyday life is strangely shot through with the fantastic, naturalistic portrayal alternates with the pathos of an abstract idea, the sober striving for reality with ecstatic visions of the world beyond the confines of reality” (Chizhevsky, cited in Rene Wellek’s 1962 Dostoevsky) and will be useful over the next few weeks as the end approaches.

As will the wise words of John, the brightly coloured sooth saying budgie of the South Bank, who sagely advised me of future events with the help of his glamorous assistant Jenny.

This prediction, whilst mostly accurate and highly entertaining, didn’t quite offer the climax to the story I wanted, so I had little alternative other than to return to

a woman about a hand, to see if she could help once again…

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