Man, I Creased. Up. this morning. I was talking to my sister and she was reading me something she’d written for Poetry Review.
I thought she was saying “I am with the reader,” - as in, she was in agreement with readers of poetry.
I didn’t understand, so I was all like “I no get it, you are ‘with the reader’ about what?,” and then she was like “No, ‘DA reader’,” and I was like, “Da reader? What are you, a hip hop artist from the early 90s?” and then she was like “No, ‘DA READER’” and I was like “‘the reader’, what?” and then she said “No, DERRIDA, the FRENCH PHILOSOPHER”.
I like being on the phone.
I want to lay down next to Richard and let my hair fall against
his hair and inhale the grass and blow on the ants and the beetles as the flowers brush against my cheek and tell him how, as I pull at the threads of his pullover, he was this secret and then not-secret thing which happened to me and not-me in the 90s and then ask him if his beard is scratchy and if I can touch it and then close my eyes when he says yes.
Engagement rings are for twats, aren’t they? I am thinking more along the lines of an ‘engagement Ford Capri’ or an ‘engagement labradoodle’.
Gorgeous vintage Temple Newsam wallpaper from an archive at Margaret Sheridan Interior Design
EDIT: It’s from 1750. 1750!
I don’t know about you, but I also like to herald the announcement of a new royal baby by offering free delivery on massive bits of steel.
Well done everyone.
Swell were one of the first bands I went to see. I was seventeen and went on the TRAIN to LONDON and it was at the BORDERLINE which I thought was WEIRD. Pretty sure I cried because I thought they were singing FOR ME.
Not much changes although on the plus side I have mastered peroxide since the days of buying box dye and wondering why my hair was orange. Progression is: spending so long in Sallys squealing at colour swatches that your card-carrying friend tells you it is ‘unprofessional’. Looking professional: over-rated.