What to do what to do...
?
Tis a loverly jubberly day and here I am sitting in front of a computer trying not to think of all the people who I have to call and the prawns marinading in the fridge which do really have to be eaten at some point; but then, sandwhiches are much easier dont you think?
There is so much to do that there seems to be nothing to do.
Clink clink, glasses. Nasty sound.
My room smells like lavender and acrylic paint, which is odd because I havent painted in a long time and the lavender smell is from an inexplicable source. Where could it possibly have come from. Such mysteries make the world seem perplexing: What is milk made from? Why does paper taste like that? Why do things smell like lavender for no reason?
I might put an advertisement for a companion in the Times, sort of like a chaperone. Twill save from both loneliness and the indignity caused by Beccy being allowed to function on her own. She is quite evidentally incapable of that. It would be nice for Saturdays to hold a place in the week over and above the day when one pieces together the events of Friday. Which apparently were interesting.

Strange mood. Strange grooves. Things seem to be a bit ok at the moment, I have a project, and plans for things that need to be done, not too many people appear to be angry, I have found a rather spiffy nice person. It must be that calm after the storm feeling that tends to happen on Sundays. The sort of, hmm, oh, what now? sort of feeling.

Anyway, there is pointless television to be watched, prawns to be eaten and phonecalls to be made. Fair enough.
All the best duckies, remember that chairs are for sitting on, tunafish is repulsive and lavender is sometimes confusing,
tahtah xxx

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

Oh jesus, that goddamn cancer research advert, it is shamelessly manipulative and just wants to make people cry and give them money. Which is exactly what I do!

Its just that bit with the woman in the wedding dress at the end... Right now Im off again. I need help. I also need to stop crying at adverts, it is a new low.

Hmm, I think I should go on a walk, a long one, for a few days... Oh well at least I can escape dieses Wochenende, hurruh. Oxford is a pair of open arms waiting to support me when Im paraletic.
Hurruh hurruh hurruh. Help.

What to do what to do... Oh dear, there seems to be a trail of debris behind me.
Im bored of things that should be said not being said.
Im going to go and live in my tiny little bedsit (of the future) with its strange and wonderful antique furniture and snuff boxes and a library and a fireplace and a big rococco four poster bed and dark blue walls with gold stars and cats and empty wine bottles and posters of arty films that only interesting people have seen and wooden floors that creak for no reason with hidden things underneath them.
This is a good plan. I will while away my days in bohemian obscurity, surrounded by works of art that people will go mad for when I die but not a day before.