In the series 'you thought it was over but let's scrape the bottom of the barrel together', I give you: c-l-o-s-u-r-e

1. Finally!
People of blogland, those of you who have been reading for some time and thinking -Jesus tap-dancing Christ, can't the girl stop whining and get over it already?, I think that I might finally have reached closure.
I might also add that this is my blog, and I'll whine if I want to.
But still: Yay!
Such a lovely, lovely word, Closure, that it deserves a capital letter.
So, I don't know yet if This is It, only hindsight will tell, but it's been five months, and, I couldn't but agree with y'all, it's starting to get ridiculous. Time to get the process started; who knows when it'll end.

2. Scenery
Today I spent the best part of the afternoon staring out of the living room window; the sky was leaden, the trees bare, a gentle breeze was playfully teasing my elderly neighbour's gigantic pants on the washing line. I was sprawled out on the sofa with a fat moggy on my stomach; J was in his lair either playing with his Lego / inventing new mathematical theorems / changing the face of audio synthesis as you know it. I was fomenting a cruel and bloody end for the drilling and sanding DIY freaks that live above us. All in all, a typical winter Sunday afternoon. Good times, people of blogland. I'm not sure why I'm telling you all this; an old fashioned urge to set the scene, probably. Or just digression. I might also add that this is my blog, so I digress if I want to.

3. Retrospective
So after I had gazed at the giant knickers blowing in the wind to my heart's content, I thought of the past five months, and of the eighteen ones before that.

4. warning signs
I wish I could recall what my horoscope said before it all began: 'Those born under the sign of the curly-pubed locust will experience wealth, self-satisfaction and regular bowel movement, whilst the unfortunates born under the sign of the cross-eyed newt are about to enter a thoroughly sucky period when they'll want to pull out their nose hair and scream or possibly pace around tall bridges wearing their heaviest shoes and a backpack containing a dictionary or two. For extra weight.' I'm sure it said that. (note to self : consider writing horoscopes as my next career choice.)

5. Estoy tranquila, estoy tranquila
And then today I realised that for the past two weeks I've been zen. There are signs: I thought of possible places to go on holiday. I brushed and flossed every day Like I intended to live beyond Easter. I also ripped up my will and binned it.
It might be closure because I have no more this tearing urge to be in contact/see/know about the ex-object of my affections. I can now balance it out with the notion that I don't want or need that much potential conflict or drama. The urge is mostly gone. It feels so good. I hope she's not eating so much deep-fried cheese and that she's being nice to her friends, and that's about it. No more fuck dreams with her in them. No more 'I'm running into A at the supermarket checkout and she gives me another chance' fantasies.
It might be the start of something like closure because I can finally look back and see what I was when with her: a puppy. Begging for attention, always scared of pooping outside my tray, scared of not being liked; because other puppies around were better looking (she's so sexy), cleverer (she really knows how to take care of herself), better suited (she's so my type), more assertive and able to deliver (c'mon, pretend you're the plumber coming in to fix my pipes.) An accessory of a puppy (your friend only cares about you because he cares about me) A cute, exotic puppy; but not the one she wanted. No what she wanted me to grow into. And now, I finally don't care if she likes me or not. She probably doesn't. Oh well.
Naturally, the past five months have been inordinately hard for me because this image of myself stuck. I hated myself for my shortcomings, my weaknesses, my tears. I thought there was little to salvage. Up til recently I was still putting her on a pedestal; I would never find anyone better, funnier, brighter.
What a snivelling idiot I was, people of blogland.

But hey, it's over. No more bullying; no more overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. Better bowel movement. Maybe I have curly-pubed locust as a rising sign.

[Insert powerpuff girls motto here.]


This cross-eyed newt in the preliminary stage of closure is off to yoga. Thank you for stopping by.

Things I am proud of
Right.
Let's think.
……
# 1 The first English word I learnt was honeysuckle. That makes me ridiculously proud. It's the randomness of it, as well, as, perhaps it's the sheer uselessness of it for a 6 year old.

# 2 In 1976 when my mother took me along to Hippie Camp and was frolicking about with naked strangers, I was the only child there who adamantly refuse to take off her swim suit. For the purpose of this list I'll sweep aside the possibility of childhood trauma and its cognitive sequellae, and focus on the unshakable strength of character I was endowed with. *Proud me *
What do you mean, pig headed?

# 3 I have never, ever forwarded a chain letter. So, so proud of that one.

(to be continued as soon as I've achieved something else in life.)

---

* And now for something completely different *
Some time ago Jacqui said : you'll pull with this blog.
Pull? Hello?
Let me recapitulate: mild flatulence, a tendency to chronic antisocial behaviour, an unhealthy attachment and rumination of ex, a propensity to symptoms of depression on public transportation, occasional bursts of pompousness, a fondness for obscure words along with wobbly syntax, only minor achievements, and a blatant lack of general direction..
Wow.
So, pulling - I don't think so.

I confess
…that I am a lurker. I lurk, internet, people of blogland, on some of Those Websites, where desperate singles mingle with voyeurs pretending to be women, bisexual women trying to pull a threesome in the company of their husband, friendless antisocial types trying to make friends. I’m a lurker with a profile. I use full sentences on it, and it’s even got a picture; often, strangers write to me.

Today’s message #1
Firstly I must say that having just seen your profile I think you are incredible, and that it would be amazing to be part of your life in any way. Please let me serve you or worship you. Let me do chores or just be there for your amusement. I must confess that I am a fun guy and just think you are fantastic. I know i should not be looking at your profile but was on the site out of curiosity (friend works for Qsoft), and saw your profile and knew that if i did not try and get in touch I would forever regret it. I would do anything you ask just to show my admiration of you. I can cook, clean, drive, be a butler, a housekeeper or a gardener or anything else you may require. I am a 30 year old white male with my own business and my own car so travel is never a problem. It would be wonderful to talk with you about this as I feel I could have much to offer you if given a chance. If you feel kind and maybe a tiny bit interested then I would love to hear from you. It would be wonderful to receive a reply from you and i will answer all questions etc promptly and in full. I also have a webcam and am on msn messenger etc if u want to chat. Living in hope of your kindness. Brad

Well, that’s ever so nice, Brad. And it really doesn’t look like an infinitely copied and pasted job. But, Brad, I have to tell you; it wouldn’t be amazing to be part of my life. In any way. I’m grumpy, messy, and prone to mood swings and mild flatulence. I leave the cap off the shampoo bottle and I squeeze out the toothpaste from the middle of the tube. And I’m not so kind, really. I’ve also been told that my greatest fault is inconsistency and I’ve deducted that it makes me impossible to be in a relationship with. So that’s out. In addition, I don’t really have space in my tiny flat for a butler or a housekeeper. The garden is currently living its own life.
But I really, really hope you find someone who goes beyond my polite answer, and takes you seriously.

Today’s message #2
xxxx with a glamorous modelling shot.
What do you mean, xxxx? Oh I get it; I’m meant to look at your picture of gorgeousness, instantly feel smitten and do all the chatting and entertaining work? Am I meant to be witty for two?
Attention seeker.
Lazy cow.
You’re not even my type.
I bet you can’t spell.

* Grumpy. *

That’s all. I’m feeling a bit sad. Nothing new there.

Ok, this is it, blogpeople, I’m stuck.
For a few days I even forgot there was a blog with my name on it and that it was my responsibility to add things to it. Real things, not just colourful pictures of soup packets with rude words on them.
Over the past three days I have done 34 hours’ work; all I seem to see is the four walls of my work place and the four walls of my house. I’m claustrophobic, dispirited, giving in to paralysis. Stuck. Maybe I should just go get blind drunk.

In times of penury, you make do with what you can get, part deux.

Rewind to the pipe fixin’
Ok, she says, imagine you’re the plumber, and you’re coming over to fix my pipes.
We both laugh, because that’s what people do. Don’t you?
But she’s intent.
- I’m a bored housewife, and you’re a big buff Black plumber guy..
- I am? I say, tentative, before taking a sip of my tea.
-Yeah, and you ring the bell, and you’re wearing your big tool belt. C’mon. What do you do next?
I smile, not sure she’s serious.
-C’mon. Just make it up. Tell me what you do. Tell me what you do to me, big beefy plumber man.
I look down at the table. It’s elaborately painted with swirls of yellow and bright pink and green. With my forefinger I play with the crumbs.
- you can do this; right? Make me a story. C’mon, how do you start? What do you say to me? Or do you just bend me over the table and fuck me?
- can’t this wait? I mean, it’s.. I mean.. I don’t know what I mean.
-c’mon, don’t be such a killjoy.
- sorry. It’s just that, I have to think about it.
- No you don’t. You have tons of imagination.

I stay silent for too long.
She was intent, she is now getting angry with me.
I can’t deliver. I’m being such a killjoy, such a let down.
I try to meet her eyes with a half apologetic, half amused glance, to try and not lose face completely. I try to make light of it. Too late, I won’t play the game, I’ve blown it. I’m such a disappointment. Again. As she stands up and piles up the breakfast plates, I wonder how I can make up for it later.

Lego mate


Perhaps it was yet another mopey lonely moment; perhaps it was yet another bus journey after a day in the zoo that I call work; but all of a sudden I realised how much I'd always wanted an older brother.
Perhaps it's a wish for protection and unconditional lenience.
Perhaps it's another badly digested Electra complex.
But everything would have been so much less frightening with some other guide to growing up than a sneering mother.

For one thing, I would have had help learning to ride that stupid bicycle and might not have ended in the compost heap.
I would probably have had warning about lifting the latch on the pigsty at the grandparents' farm. Older brothers know that when pigs are let out they cause a lot of damage. And it would have been so much easier to build those damn tree houses than on my own, and maybe I wouldn’t have had that unfortunate accident with a plank, a 9” nail and my right foot.

Because of our age difference, I left home without ever being any kind of a proper sister to my younger brother. I often feel that, perhaps, if I'd been there more, he wouldn't have taken the way out, out of loneliness and lack of help with tree houses, pigsties and compost heaps. He knew everything about the politics and economic situation of Guatemala, but he never knew how to ride a bike. I bet he wished he'd had an older sister.

I now share a house with a genius boy who knows little about tree houses but a lot about all sorts of genius stuff. He enters Lego competitions and delivers lectures in audio synthesis in universities. He watches cartoons and stays up all night writing computers programmes that no-one's even thought about yet. Thanks to him things are a little less frightening. Sometimes I can even feel the Unconditional settle in. He never sneers.
And now, if you'll excuse me, we have a Lego police station to build in the living room. The parcel arrived on Friday. It might take a couple of hours.

wondrous bus journey #426

Would you believe it, blogpeople, I take the bus home.
O, public transportation, O, bus, fertile ground for subtle social commentaries!
Anyway.

There is that little plasma screen at the front of my bus, to the left of the driver. Green capital letters.
You have to look up to read the text that scrolls across the screen.

CHOP WOOD FOR LOG FIRE
HAVE THREE SQUARE MEALS A DAY
SAVE UP FOR HOLIDAYS
STILL KEEPING YOUR RESOLUTIONS?
IF NOT? WHY NOT?

I wonder
1. Who is this aimed at? Lumberjacks? Anorexics? Housewives that spend their allowance on crack? Procrastinators? People with a guilt complex?
2. And why?

3. Do the bus co. have a committee of people they pay to come up with that shit?
4. If yes, can I apply?
I can be as randomly condescending as the next person. Especially for money.

My suggestions:
A SPLIFF A DAY KEEPS THE DOCTOR AWAY
REMEMBER NATIONAL MASTURBATION DAY
FEELING GREAT? FUCK WORK? CALL IN WELL!

More suggestions welcome.
I’m tired. Love you all.

afterthought:

In times of penury, you make do with what you can find.

Dreams, dreams, dreams
Sometimes in my REM sleep I take a long enough break from puking cats to have dreams that I can only describe as Sort Out My Life Dreams..
So today, people of blogland, I give you:

SOML dream #1
In this one, I am compiling extracts from A’s blog or emails that are particularly vengeful or obnoxious or petty. To me, to her friends, whatever. Just plain bad. It makes for a long text, that I can refer to in times of acute missing her. To put me off, you know. Puncture the balloon of obsession with the pointy spikes of reality. Brutally open the oven door on the rising soufflé of idealisation. I’ve got more metaphors, just ask.

Awake, this idea doesn’t strike me as quite as judicious as it did in the dream. More masochistic than anything else, actually. So I won’t do it. Hey, I’m crazy and obsessive, but not that crazy.

SOML dream #2
The kettle explodes and stops working. End of dream.

In real life, the kettle that I never paid for 9 and a half years ago is indeed boiling its last bubbles. So in my heart I blessed Yoko, the cute Japanese exchange student next door who gave it to me before returning to Tokyo, and I gave the kettle a decent sepulchre. Then I went to Argos and gazed at their Laminated Book of Dreams, and purchased a kettle; (We all know why they laminate it, don’t we; to catch the tears of joy at all the wonderful things that can be had.)
[note for the non-initiated and other foreigners: Argos is exactly like a shop, only different, since you pick everything from a catalogue (laminated), and a nice person hands you your purchase over a counter. Then you try to get home on the bus with a giant box with a fridge in it.]

Whenever I find myself marvelling at house appliances, two images come to mind:
1. Muriel’s mother in Muriel’s wedding, staring absent-mindedly at a mug of water being microwaved. That bit is shortly before she goes crazy and has to be locked up.
2. Enid’ best friend in Ghost World on moving into her new apartment, which includes a special cupboard for the ironing board. She gets excited about it; it’s the end of a beautiful friendship.
Therefore I hope I don’t get any more SOML dreams of a domestic nature. They kinda scare me.

I’m off to do yoga. To try and achieve a balance. You know.

Not everything is about sex, you know

Salt. Pepper. Deployed paper napkin. I’m preparing psychologically to bite into a humongously rare and juicy burger; but bits and layers and slices are falling out of it. I try to tuck everything back in with my knife. Stay, onion slices!

Use your hands! Says J, never short of original ideas.
No.
Why not?
Because. I don’t know.
It says a lot about your approach to food, you know.
Mmm.
And your approach to life, too. Too afraid to use your hands. You won’t use your hands, and sometimes you’ve got a headache, too, I s’ppose?

I put my knife down. It’s a matter of pride.

Hey, Internet, people of blogland, I’m having blogger’s block. So, obviously, I have questions:

1. Does this make me a real blogger then?
2. Am I about to verify my 2 pence theory that as soon as you post ‘I have nothing to say’, ideas come flooding back?
3. Should I blame yoga? I mean, here I was, all strung out and knotted up, so I stretched and inhaled, pulled and exhaled, put my legs behind my head, and next thing I know, I’m all wobbly and really feeling quite happy. Which leads me to the next question:
4. Does all blogging have to be angst and rigidity-driven?

Internet, you’re right, I shouldn’t worry, really. I have bags of tortured angsty anecdotes for later on. Some other day. I’ll be back.

Proud mom moment, or Today’s slice of cheesy anthropomorphism

Today Chavo the moggy was sick. I found out on getting home that he jumped into the bath tub, where he puked up his little guts.
Where it’s easy to clean up. Pinch nose, hose puke down, and voilà.
So for today I have the brightest cat in the whole world and I promised him to not torture him with fake milk ever again.
All those times he ran down the stairs at high speed and head first into the piano doesn’t seem to have totally lobotomised him, then.
Proud me.

A normal Sunday morning in this household…

...starts with the Best Of the Red Army Choir blasting out of J’s bedroom. If I listen carefully, it soon becomes obvious that what they’re singing is actually ‘it’s a long way to Tipperary.’ Well, for them especially, I would say.
Internet, I was going to tell you all about J’s Sunday morning fascinating rituals, but I am now being overwhelmed by the desire to put on some pyjamas and get into bed with a book. So maybe next time. In the meantime, be assured that neither of us is a communist, and sleep well.

More bleakness

Rewind to : February 1994

Is there anything you would like from my house? he asks.
For an infinitesimal amount of time, before the question strikes me as odd, I can feel my mind rush onto the greedy path, ready to covet and request; then it hesitates, and halts.

Reason takes over, and says, now is not the time to be greedy, the question is decidedly odd; why does the ex boyfriend call me up late at night from another country to ask me if there is anything I would like from his house?

“I just wondered” he replies. “Don’t ask; just tell me if there is something you would like to have.”

Again the ugliness steps forward, tentatively; something, some object can be had, something can be mine.

Still, I question him. I’m starting to see the shape of the answer; and when it comes it’s not a surprise, still I turn simultaneously hot and cold.
“I’m leaving. There is nothing for me here”, he says, and the words get caught in his throat, then a blank.

Why is my reaction a wave of pure, searing anger?
“How can you do this to me?” I hear myself yell. I hate him for what he is about to do, for telling me about it, for wanting me to have something of his, a memento of his, after he’s dead. I hate him for wanting me to cry over him. And I despise him, the weak, the unresolved, the undetermined, for wanting to die when life is so good and promising, isn’t life good and promising? It is for me. Why can’t he be more like me? I am hard, and tough, and full of resolve; I am a fighter with a sense of humour. You’ll survive anything, with a sense of humour. Why can’t he do like me and stop being such a crybaby? I am, I have. How can he do that to me?

Eventually the wave subsides and I try to get words through his sobs. An hour, two hours, three, four. I can’t let him get off the phone. I don’t know what arguments I use, perhaps my words are not arguments. In the end, I feel that I have won a battle. I’m so strong, such a great person. I’m the valorous rescuer.

[the recovery mission goes like this: since it is before the advent of cell phones, I scribble his parents’ phone number on a piece of paper and send my mother to the phone box. In halting English she sums up the emergency. They’re there within ten minutes; the rope is cut off the wooden beam in his living room. I hang up. I don’t cry. I apologize to my mother for getting her up in the middle of the night.]

It’s been ten years and I have learned. I have learned to not despise and belittle. I have learned of my own foolishness, and incredible vanity. I have learned that I am not tough and determined, not tough at all. Sometimes I too start to wonder what things of mine my friends would like to own; luckily, I have also learned to only call someone who is able to help, not someone who covets and yells, gets angry and self-righteous, and thinks of her/his own comfort first.

Shortly after that night, he burned his bridges with me. I would have done.

People of blogland, I am sorry this blog is becoming so bleak; probably the most depressing thing on the blogosphere. (Although, I can spell and I won’t use cute little lol-like acronyms; so maybe not the most depressing thing.) But this is the way it is. It’s my catharsis. Better than yell at people, shoot pigeons or kick children on public transportation. I don’t know if it gets worse before it gets better. Well, I know it gets worse, but some days I’m not so sure it can get better. When I know for sure I’ll let you know, or pick a tall bridge. In the meantime, please only visit if you’re not tough and if you don’t despise. Alternatively, ignore the cathartic posts and only read stuff about my trips to the supermarket. Next time, I’ll explain how much cocoa there needs to be in milk chocolate to be worth buying. Good night. Love all 12 of you.

Like a vaccine, only different

When the missing+her gets too much
When I’m on an obsession loop
There is one thing that makes me snap out of it
I get this out:

Take a look;
It’s an ugly picture.

It was taken one afternoon in April
It’s hours long.
The caption reads [selfish / cruel] and [humiliation / loneliness]
as well as all sorts of other self-pitying words I could find.
But most importantly
It’s almost a caricature of her.
All the traits are real
Only magnified.

This picture - it really is ugly.
I look at it some more.

Just looking at it makes me freeze, makes me want to barf.
Some more
There
Still missing her?
Missing the caricature?
Didn’t think so.

This ugly picture is my trump card.
On the back it has a capital R, for Remember, prodigue! esto memor.

Now do us all a favour, go back to bed and shut up.

(Good night. Sorry about the self-indulgent stream of consciousness.)

So sad. Yet so true.

Not just olfactory

Late at night, I lay in some warm limbo of near-sleep when it hits me, unmistakable:

1. her smell. I remember her smell. It’s like getting my face slapped.
2. push it away/inhale as deep as I can?

3. it came out of nowhere, out of nothing, nothing in the room does/should smell of her, yet her smell forced itself upon me, played with me for a few seconds.
4. I inhale as hard as I can, afraid that it will go away, that it will turn out to be something else.

5. Do you know how difficult it is to remember someone’s smell? And how defiantly impossible to describe? I can’t even begin to describe it, I’m not subtle or lyrical enough to not immediately fall into the linguistic trap filled with ‘powerful’ and ‘rich’ and ‘spicy’; and still, should I try, you would never know what her smell is. I can’t even use a synonym or it for the sake of avoiding repetition.
6. Her smell is the thing I can’t rationalise, cut into pieces and put in a box.
7. It’s the smell that would greet me, again and again, on my arrival at the airport, when I would throw myself on her and think – this is where I want to be.

2. push it away/inhale as deep as I can?

8. I think I enjoy getting my face slapped.

D is for diet

As part of his new year’s resolutions, I bought the cat some Reduced Fat Friskies.

· -20% fat for his health (because I can’t lift him with one hand anymore and he won’t fit into shoe boxes.)
· Chicken, turkey and vegetables flavour for his chronic bad breath. (Give him tuna and he’ll burn holes in the furniture.)

I was giggling to myself in the supermarket – after pretend milk, pretend food. Remind me to never have children that aren’t old enough to defend themselves.

Rear-view mirror- objects are larger than they appear

Ok, it’s been lurking at the back of my head for too many days (3), it’s screaming to get out, so, people of blogland I give you: 2004: the retrospective. So sorry.

January started on a high note with the birth of this blog, which I believe was an immediate side effect of watching the Cheeky Girls perform on Top of The tops. In January, I spent a lot of time on the phone and exchanged over a hundred emails with the object of my affection. I also waited for the outcome of the Green Card programme and I worked a lot and pondered over where my life was going. I crossed out every day in my diary.

February was less lumpy than it generally tends to be, since I had enough saving coupons to get a 4" space on a plane and propel myself 6000 miles away, in order to enjoy love, the exhilaration of life plans, amazing sex and quality sushi in the little city by the bay. I watched gay couples come out of City hall with a marriage licence that would later be annulled. I harboured a not-so-secret wish that I could be just as gay. When I came back, besides pondering over where my life was going I wondered how to keep up with it. I started taking extra vitamins, magnesium and Omega 3, and I crossed out every day in my diary.

March was as March usually is, with an idea of Spring hovering, and not much Spring happening. I probably caught a cold and wrote a bad haiku about lemsip. I also spent a lot of time on the phone and exchanged over a hundred emails with the object of my affection. I kept waiting for the Green card. I started panicking about getting one. I started panicking about not getting one. I started panicking about panicking, and about my girlfriend not loving me anymore as a result of my irresponsible panic. I stayed in and paced a lot.

April was an anniversary and a birthday, so with the rest of my coupons I sent myself over there again. I tried to explain the panic. I cried and blubbered and let it all out. She said she'd be there for me; as long as it didn't last too long. She took me to a hot spring retreat in the mountain and we floated in a pool of warm water under the stars, so I calmed down for about half an hour. The panic stayed in and paced a lot. After I came back, I doubled up the vitamins, the magnesium and the omega 3, and crossed my fingers for a green card. Oh, and I spent a lot of time on the phone, too.

May was as May is, full of promise. I most certainly caught another cold. I uncrossed my fingers long enough for the blood to flow, then crossed them again, for the Green card. I bought more vitamins. I worked. I phoned. I emailed. I waited. The fits of panic had by then turned into a constant state.

June happened, I think. I phoned, waited, emailed. My March fear turned out to be true: my girlfriend was getting fed up of me panicking about moving to the other side of the world and leaving everything behind. We argued on the phone. She cried. I cried. I felt that if things couldn’t be simpler it was probably my fault. I wasn’t strong enough, determined enough, daring and clever enough. In spite of the vitamins, which are nothing but superstition.

In July, I went to France and never wanted to leave again. The Green card deadline was past anyway. I wanted to stay in my grandmother’s house and help fix the roof, feed the chickens, do the gardening, far from phones and computers.
I kept looking at the LHR-SFO return ticket I‘d bought, and I doubted a lot. And then I went anyway, because I was in love, and to me that means always trying, not holding back, trying to not reason, and above putting my trust in the one I love. Perhaps that's also superstition.


August was, if not a conflict, a paradox. A. took me to the warm hot pool in the mountains under the stars again. The sex was amazing as always; something gave in me and I felt that it would get even better; I was hit in the face with all the reasons why I had fallen in love with that woman. Simultaneously I realised how much I’d tried to live up to the woman she thought she’d fallen in love with. I realised I was failing. It was probably my fault. I panicked. We fought. For the first time in months, I yelled at someone in anger, and fear.
I went for walks to the park with a yellow epileptic dog and bought second hand books. And I flew back for the last time.

September was bleak. September was the end of the phone calls, the emails, the waiting, the plans and hopes. I slept a lot. No more panic.

In October, November and December, I had dreams of throwing up.
I counted the days since the break up and admonished myself for not recovering sooner. I bought orange clothes. And I applied for a Green card.

Lump

Buy me. I’ll change your life; say the faux-cynical billboards from Selfridges. It’s the sale, I am fairly solvent and susceptible to advertising, so after mass yesterday I tried to be part of the hordes and go shopping. Two budget-saving conclusions:
1. I don’t need anything.
2. I don’t want to buy anything anyway.
What I need is to go away, but I don’t know away from what, besides the obvious constituted by my four walls, the green kitchen, the blue bathroom, the view over the neighbour’s yard, Sid the vicious cat, the plants I haven’t managed to kill off despite years of care. Maybe I need the kind of break where you don’t bother to lock the door on the way out and throw away the key into the trash. I don’t know. I’m envying my mother; as soon as she has completed her painting of camels’ heads on the bathroom wall, she’s off to some Ashram in India for an indefinite period of time. I lead a more structured life, and the thought of letting that structure take over again tomorrow at the ass-crack of dawn is enough for me to want to pull out my nose hair and scream. I hope the pile of detective novels I have bought will carry me through January. January is by far the least fizzy, the lumpiest month in the year, right after February. February is beyond lumpy, it’s nothing but a humongous block of bleakness. Maybe I should run away to India too.
For now, I’m off to pull out my nose hair. And scream.

Have fun with your pets

Saucer from pet shop, £1
Soy milk, 750cl, £1.10
Moggy’s face when he realises that it looks like milk, comes out of a carton like milk, but it isn’t milk: priceless.

Wasteful, though.