Woodchip is bad. But I am too tired to take it away and turn it into tasteful, retro white with roses.
How will I get the Pilgrim’s Map of the Holy Land (Palestine) 1942 on the wall?
Why did I start colour-coding my books before sorting out all my books, now the Green Ones overfloweth?
Am I happy or sad that the view is the arse-end of terraces overlooking a railway track?
Yesterday was Flying Ant Day. I hate flying ant day and always have. One went down my bra as I was pushing a pram and holding a grizzling baby. Dis-GUSTING.
I can’t hear crying from here. Peace. Sublime.
If I cry, no one will hear me in here.
I have installed my husband’s dansette record player and am listening to Janis Ian on vinyl.
I think I will bring in the Hoya plant for its South Facing and sunny and the Hoya hasn’t flowered its weird alien flowers since we left East London.
THERE IS NO TRACE OF A NAPPY OR THOMAS THE TANK IN THIS ROOM.
Should I feel guilty that I bought some office supplies in craft design (meaning recycled ‘natural’) from Muji instead of cheaper plastic versions from Staples?
Am craving a snazzy stapler.
Why am I dancing in a long white dress, burning?
Why am I sipping a cocktail called the Flamingo a la Audrey Hepburn?
Why has the piano slipped away, far far away, melted into the railway tracks so the keys have become sleepers and sleep is gone?
